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N29 

AMERICAN AUTH 


IS5UE.D SEMI-MONTHL’ 



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4 


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ISS MARSTON, 




(f 






Miss Marston 



T’Z 'i 
' 


COPYIUGHT, 1S90, 

BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL. 


CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE. 

EPISODES AT ST. MATHILDE. page . 

EPISODE I. — Monsieur, Madam, and Madam’s Brother, 5 

“ II. — In a Rose Garden 14 

“ III.— Firelight Reflections 22 

“ IV. — Indiscretion of the Accused 31 

/. BACK PAGES. 

CHAPTER I.— Advent of a Heroine 42 

“ II.— Inside History 50 

III. — The Misses Bronson 64 

“ IV.— Cloudland ..* 80 

II. PROBLEMATICAL INSANITY. 

CHAPTER I.— Mademoiselle Clothilde 94 

“ II. — Two ON A Tower 107 

“ III.— Beginning TO Plot 116 

“ IV.— Plans OF Campaign 122 

III. GROUNDS MORE RELATIVE. 

CHAPTER I. — Potter’s Gulch 129 

“ II. — Over the Coffee Cups 135 

“ III. — Confidential 149 

“ IV.— Underground 160 

IV. AT THE END OF THE WORLD. 

CHAPTER I.— Revelations in a Dog Cart 169 

“ II.— Francois Purchases Soap 182 

“ III. — Old Acquaintances Meet 196 

“ IV. — Decision 208 










MISS MARSTON, 


EPISODE I. 

MONSIEUR, MADAM, AND MADAM’s BROTHER. 

There arrived one day at St. Mathilde, Mon- 
sieur, Madam, and Madam’s brother. 

As you travel inland from Marseilles, you 
will find St. Mathilde, a sleepy, red-roofed, 
ancient town, smothered in roses, and by the 
side of a distressingly placid river. There are 
few commendable or striking features about 
the village — it is a flat, unprofitable place, with 
a few cottages of remarkable similarity, an old 
chateau and a disproportioned, faintly-painted 
inn. The inn frowns dowm on the cottages 
from its superior height, and the chateau, which 
is haunted, frowns down on the inn. So fear- 


6 


M/SS MARSTON-. 


ful is the frown from the chateau that one 
finding oneself in St. Mathilde frequently 
wonders how the roses can bloom in the very 
shadow of it. The chateau is a gray, pon- 
derous affair, with many hollow eyes and 
crumbling walls. Two hundred years ago 
there lived in this great building the Marquis 
de Maintenon, connected with whom, it is 
related, there were matters of a curious nature. 
It is known, even at this late period, that the 
Marquis had a very beautiful daughter, who, 
being beloved by a courtier of the King, much 
against the Marquis’ sanction, one night stole 
away from the gray chateau and fled with her 
handsome lover to Paris. There was a year 
of gaiety and a child. One day it so occurred, 
although tradition does not state why, that the 
young man, the young woman and the off- 
spring of this hasty, yet evidently happy, mar- 
riage, returned to the chateau. The Marquis, 
like many of his kind, was a man of terrible 
temper, and although the interview which fol- 
lowed on the arrival of the two was never 
repeated correctly to St. Mathilde ears, the 


MISS MARSTOM. 


7 


very horrible fact remains that all four were 
found dead in the chateau the morning follow- 
ing the young couple’s arrival from Paris. 
Signs of a terrible struggle on the great stair- 
way were distressingly evident, and at the foot 
were the dead bodies of both the Marquis and 
his son-in-law. One of the stories told a St. 
Mathilde gossip by an authority was to the 
effect that Monsieur the Marquis first slew his 
daughter, dashed the infant’s head against a 
wall, and fought with his relative by marriage 
until both considerately died and completed 
the tragedy. The gossip, hearing this ghastly 
tale, spread it diligently around the village, and, 
with the necessary and customary embellish- 
ments, it descended with the years. You may 
hear at St. Mathilde to-morrow that the ter- 
rible Marquis slaughtered thirteen servants, 
two sons-in-law, four daughters, children innu- 
merable, and would have fatally wounded the 
King himself had he been in the vicinity of the 
destructive sword. 

When you stop at St. Mathilde the first 
person to greet you on alighting from the 


8 


Af/SS MARSTON. 


diligence is Pierre Conde, a lineal descendant 
of an historic soldier, who will conduct you 
within his inn, set the most delicious of lunches 
before you, and acquaint you with the story of 
the chateau while you dine. One by one the 
villagers will look in at the door, chat briefly 
with Madam Conde, who always knits, and then 
go to their red-roofed houses or to the unpro- 
ductive looking vineyard. Nothing of interest 
ever occurs in St. Mathilde — save, possibly, a 
death. 

Yet there arrived one day. Monsieur, Mad- 
am, and Madam’s brother. 

The ever present alertness, restlessness, and 
even rompishness of Madam and Madam’s 
brother, stamped them Americans. Monsieur 
was stately, somewhat aged, as the gray aspect 
of his hair and beard would tend to show, and 
was, evidently, an Englishman. Madam was 
young, possibly not yet twenty, with a small, 
lithe, well-knit figure, on which the brown 
tourist’s dress was seen to admirable advantage. 
She had a quick, bright step, and a pleasant 
little laugh, such as seldom fell on St. Matilde 


M/SS MAAS TO JV. 


9 


ears. Her brother, probably three years her 
elder, was a strong, bronzed, handsome young 
fellow, whose carriage was that of a soldier and 
who was totally dissimilar to this interesting 
young woman. He met Monsieur and Madam 
in Marseilles — the first meeting with his sister 
for many, many years Monsieur was informed. 

There was a great deal of baggage, but, 
compared to its proportion, a too great amount 
of cursing from Didier, the porter, w'ho was 
forced to carry it all up the narrow, tortuous 
staircase, while Pierre told the story of the 
chateau, while Madame Conde knit, and while 
the villagers sated their curiosity. 

During the luncheon Madam remarked that 
she was grnatly interested in the chateau. In- 
deed she had learned of it in Marseilles. 

“ The fame of St. Mathilde chateau has 
spread to Marseilles,” remarked Conde, nod- 
ding toward his wife. 

“ Marseilles is at last excited over the St. 
Mathilde chateau,” nodded Madam Conde to 
the gossip. 

“ All Marseilles is coming to see the chateau,” 


lO 


M/SS MARSTON. 


proclaimed the gossip, and shortly the news 
returned to Madam Conde, after its circuitous 
travels, that all Marseilles would arrive on 
Monday to inspect the great curiosity. 

To-morrow, Madam said, she would be pleased 
to visit this historic chateau, and now, having 
finished their truly excellent repast, would Mon- 
sieur the landlord accompany Monsieur and 
Madam to their apartments } Ah, that was 
Monsieur the landlord’s most happy office. 
Whereupon there was a great deal of bowing, a 
little scolding, an excited rushing up and down 
the narrow staircase, and finally the usual even- 
ing quietness of St. Mathilde. 

The sun was setting, and Madam threw open 
the north window- In the garden below. Mon- 
sieur her brother, was smoking a cigar. He 
saw her and nodded. Great yellow, slanting 
bars of sunlight reflected in the eyes of the mas- 
sive stone heap on the hill, while its crumbling 
battlements stood coldly out against the crim- 
soning sky. Monsieur went to the window, and 
leaned over the back of Madam’s chair, his 
breath fanning her neck, and whisking a lock ot 


M/SS MAJiSTOJV. 


II 


her brown hair over her eyes. She pushed it 
away somewhat irritably, with a nervous little 
gesture, which Monsieur, who loved her very 
dearly, did not notice. She was looking at the 
sunset of a day — he at t’ e sunrise of her wom- 
anliness. 

“ Do,” he said, finally, “ why did you come 
here ? ” 

She merely pointed to the magnificent ruins 
bathed in the last warm glow of day, and said : 

“ Can you ask, when you look on that .? ” 

“ But one may observe sunsets anywhere — in 
Marseilles, England, America, or — Iceland, if 
you will.” 

“ Not such a one as this. Here, you may see 
nothing but the light passing into darkness, the 
great holy glow of the sun’s last rays. In Mar- 
seilles your sunsets are mingled with the cries 
of fish-venders, with the hurrying of the people 
and the never-ending echoes of the sea. As 
for England, America or Iceland, one cannot 
enjoy the sunset without travelling to it, and I 
have no desire to leave France just yet. Be- 
sides, elsewhere, there is the sunset and the 


12 


MISS MARSTON. 


world — here, nothing but quietness, simplicity 
and — well, the sunset. Then that old chateau 
— what glorious possibilities for the artist. In 
Marseilles they told us it had been sketched but 
once ; why, I shall spend days with my easel in 
that grand building, and my thoughts with its 
mysteries.” 

“ Then the picture is to be the effort of your 
life ? ” And he smiled slightly as he stroked 
her straying hair. 

“ Yes — the effort of my life. Do you think 
it so serious a matter to stay in this quaint 
unknown place for the sake of art ? ” 

She pouted bewitchingly, just as she had 
pouted that rainy day in London, three months, 
before, when she dropped a package in the 
muddy street. H e remembered how grateful she 
seemed when he picked it up and met his eyes 
for the first time. But three months, and now 
she was his wife ! She loved him, this dainty 
little American of twenty summers — loved him, 
a man of forty ! 

He leaned further over the chair and gently 
kissed her forehead — almost reverently. 


M/SS MARSTON'. 


13 


“ Bless you, my dear, you may remain in this 
bower of roses all summer if you wish.” 

Monsieur in the garden had finished his 
cigar. He walked toward the house, and 
looking up at the form in the window called ; 

“ Good-night, Do.” 

“ Good-night.” 

Then he disappeared in the narrow door- 
way. 

“ Do you know,” said Monsieur, “ that I 
am inclined to feel jealous of that handsome 
brother of yours ? Why, ever since your 
Marseilles meeting you have not, until to- 
night, given me a half-hour alone with you.” 

“ He has been a very dear brother,” she said 
simply, “ and I shall ever love him.” 

Whereupon Monsieur kissed her once again, 
and both watched the silent shadows gather 
more deeply around the distant chateau with 
its hollow eyes and crumbling battlements until 
the darkness came and stars began their nightly 
watch over red-roofed St. Mathilde. 


14 


M/SS MARSTON. 


EPISODE II. 

IN A ROSE GARDEN. 

The stay of Monsieur, Madam, and Madam’s 
brother at St. Mathilde had been prolonged. 
Madam, who, it was developed to the villagers, 
was an artist of pretension, showed more than 
ordinary interest in the chateau, and was trans- 
ferring, with remarkable skill and attention to 
detail, the more historic portions of the wonder- 
ful building, to her canvas. A laborer, who 
had been fortunate enough to obtain a view of j 
the “ haunted staircase ” so deftly and artisti- j 
cally reproduced by Madam, was enthusiastic in j 
its praise. He had never, he said, seen its 
equal even in Marseilles — and where, Mon ^ 
Dieu ! were there paintings to compare with ; 
those of Marseilles } 

It became noticed that, as the visit was pro- 
longed, Monsieur was left greatly to his own 
devices for amusement. At precisely eight 


M/SS MARSTON^. 


15 


o’clock each morning — a disgustingly late hour 
with the villagers — Madam, with her neat little 
tin box in one hand and a substantial, though 
inelegant umbrella in the other, left the inn for 
the chateau. She was invariably followed by 
her brother, who had in charge an easel, a rug 
of Turkish pattern and, usually, a lunch. When 
the lunch was not carried. Madam and her 
brother returned to the inn at noon. Fre- 
quently their stay was prolonged until quite 
late in the day. For a time Monsieur accom- 
panied, carrying, like an obedient servant, the 
tin box. But, after a while, as conversation 
usually fell between Madam and her brother, 
each of whom lifted their very expressive eye- 
brows, did Monsieur venture a word, he became 
convinced that he was the addition forming the 
crowd and discreetly withdrew. It was noticed, 
too, that Monsieur grew daily paler, evidently 
weaker, and there were those in the village who 
shook their heads at the roses, and predicted 
that Monsieur was not long for St. Mathilde, 
not long for Marseilles — in short, not long for 
the world. 


i6 


M/SS MARSTON. 


One of the most magnificent of St. Mathilde 
gardens was that belonging to Oliver Ferri, 
near the vineyards. While absent, Oliver’s 
brown, sturdy son Francois — a handsome lad — 
was left to care for the roses. And it was in 
this direction that Monsieur, unattended, was 
wont to walk. Monsieur, one day, leaning over 
the gate, chatted with Francois, and stated he 
admired roses. Whereupon, returning to the 
inn, the English gentleman was surprised at 
being presented with the most exquisite bouquet 
it had been possible for Francois to find. This 
became a custom, for every day thereafter, on 
awakening. Monsieur inhaled the delicious 
exotic of fresh flowers from Oliver Ferri’s gar- 
den. Soon did Francois begin to accompany 
Monsieur on little pilgrimages to the wood, 
the river, and — infrequently — the chateau. A 
strong friendship was formed between the two. 
Monsieur had much to tell, in his delightful 
way, of England and America, while Francois, 
in his poor fashion, had much to tell of St. 
Mathilde, and to show, unconsciously, that his 
humdrum life, enlightened by dreams of coming 


M/SS MARSTON. 


17 


greatness, was beautiful even in its simplicity. 

Madam found time to ask one day ; “ Who 
is that boy ” 

They were in the garden of the inn : Mon- 
sieur and Francois intent on a new-fishing rod 
sent from Marseilles ; Madame and brother 
standing by the gate. For weeks she had 
taken but passing notice of Francois — scarcely 
even of her husband, and the question came 
with a directness almost cruel. 

“ Who are you ? ” she asked impulsively, 
walking toward the youth. He, accustomed to 
seeing but not hearing this young woman, 
whom he knew as Monsieur’s wife, shrank 
back in confusion, while Monsieur looked up 
amazed from his seat. 

“ Who are you .? ” 

There was a painful pause. Madam, slender 
as ^e was, all at once seemed a dragon to the 
boy. 

“ If you please,” he answered as timidly as 
though he were a city newsboy taken to task 
for stealing, “ I am simply Francois — the son 
of Oliver Ferri.” 


3 


1 8 M/SS MARSTON. 

“ And who may Oliver Ferri be ? I know 
him not. What are his merits } Y ou seem to 
gauge everything by honesty in St. Mathilde — 
is he honest ? ” 

Madam was no longer a dragon — she was a 
wicked, insulting woman. Francois raised his 
flushed face proudly, and regarded her with 
his great, round eyes. 

“ My father honest ! What reason have you 
to question his honesty, not knowing him ? ” 

The boy, hot-tempered as well as timid, stood 
boldly before Madam, and his breath came very 
fast. A portion of his blue blouse had fallen 
from the neck, revealing a smooth expanse of 
firm, brown skin ; his chest rose and fell angrily. 

“ You are a little fool,” said Madam. 

Monsieur sprang from his seat. “ Do’ what 
does this mean ? Why do you speak to this 
lad in such a manner ? It is unjust, cruel. 
Francois is my friend.” 

“ You did not account the peasantry of Eng- 
land and Germany your friends — rather the 
opposite, I fancied. Has St. Mathilde made 
you so regardless in selecting your associates .? ” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


19 

Madam’s query seemed to strike her husband 
dumb for a time. Here was a role he had 
never seen her play. He could hardly com- 
prehend it, and passed his hands over his white 
brow, as though to brush away a mist. To be 
ignored was cruel, yet to be forgiven. To be 
mocked was like a stab in the dark — a stab for 
which he was wholly unprepared. While Mon- 
sieur fought with his emotions there was the 
stillness of the dawn in the garden, and the 
tableau, as viewed by the surprised inn-keeper 
in the door-way, very effective. 

Finally Monsieur spoke, lowly and clearly, 
with an uncontrollable tremor in his voice, 
which unconsciously told a story that touched 
even the unsympathetic heart of the brother at 
the gate. 

“ I cannot understand you,” said he, “ for I 
have never seen you like this. You may have 
been severely crossed by some affair — some 
accident, perhaps — but you are not right in 
venting your ill-nature on my little friend, 
whom I esteem so highly. He has done much 
to lighten the melancholy trouble you have cast 


20 


M/SS MARS TON. 


upon me, Do. I hated to think you were 
slighting me — even forgetting me — but as the 
time passed on this belief began to rule; I 
could not shake it off. We have made a mis- 
take, it is evident, a dreadful mistake. I think 
it would be well if you went in now. After tea 
I should like to speak with you if,” he looked 
up appealingly — “ if you do not mind.” 

His words seemed to cast a sort of sorrow- 
ful, melancholy spell over the garden and its 
occupants. It was very still, and the soft 
breeze that came from the south did not even 
shake the leaves. Monsieur, having finished, 
turned toward the fallen fishing-rod, while 
Madam, followed by the ever-present brother, 
walked silently toward the inn. When Fran- 
cois, who felt strangely awed, resumed his seat 
beside Monsieur, he noted a mist in the great 
gray eyes, and finally a tear rolled down Mon- 
sieur’s beard. Slipping to the ground he drew 
the rod from the man’s white hands and clasped 
them in his own. 

“Forgive me. Monsieur,” he pleaded, “for 
what I have said— for what I shall say. But 


M/SS MARSTON. 


tl 


oh, Monsieur, she does not love you — this your 
wife, Monsieur, cares not for how she pains 
you.” 

“God forgive her, Francois — she has deeply 
pained me.” His face grew whiter, and the 
deep-furrowed lines contracted and twitched as 
he arose and stretched his hands out appeal- 
ingly, as though speaking to some great, holy, 
unseen being. “ She has pained me, and, 
heaven forgive me,” he whispered, “ I fear she 
does not love.” Then he sank on the bench, 
and leaned despairingly upon his hands, while 
the boy knelt beside him. A bright crimson 
glare shot from the sky and fell slanting 
through the trees like a bar of slowly-cooling 
iron. Then it faded; a soothing, welcome twi- 
light came over St. Mathilde, and in the inn 
garden a bird sang low and sweet. 


22 


MISS MASSrOM 


EPISODE III. 

FIRELIGHT REFLECTIONS. 

When Monsieur became so very ill he could 
not leave his room, a sort of conciliation, or en- 
durance, was established between Madam and 
Francois. The boy was not to be thrown from 
his desire to show appreciation of Monsieur’s 
kindness, and persisted, despite rebuffs from 
Madam’s brother and Madam herself, in daily 
bringing the choicest of St. Mathilde roses to 
brighten the darkened room in which Monsieur 
lay — roses that only faded and died in the hot, 
medicinated air. Monsieur was for the greater 
part of the time unconscious, yet in half-deli- 
rium called for Francois, until the Marseilles 
physician who was attending, commanded the 
boy’s presence at the bedside. He was a faith- 
ful attendant, the brown, rugged, peasant-boy, 
who cheerfully exchanged the pleasant days 


M/SS MARSTOr^. 


23 


in the rose-garden for the hot, unhealthy hours 
in the sick chamber. 

So Madam and Francois endured one another. 
Madam, who had finally given up the sketching 
trips, watching, with the zealous boy-nurse, the 
life of Monsieur as it slowly ebbed. It was a 
peculiar case. Monsieur the physician said — the 
most puzzling, the most baffling, he would con- 
fess, with which he had ever come in contact. 
He sent, therefore, for a learned colleague and 
waited, with plain uneasiness, his arrival, for 
Monsieur was sinking fast. 

***** 

A great storm swept inland. At St. Mathilde 
the wind hurried, with an ever-increasing voice, 
around the corners of the red-roofed cottages, 
stripped the rose-bushes of their perfumed bur- 
dens and hurled them, with swift fury, against 
the window-panes and doors. At the chateau 
were many noises on the wind-riffed parapet and 
in the stone-sided apertures. It seemed as 
though the ghosts of Monsieur the Marquis 
and his ill-fated relatives were re-enacting the 
thrilling scene of a bygone age. 


24 


M/SS MARS TON'. 


At the inn there were horrible rattlings of shut- 
ters and rocking of chimneys. When the rain ! 
began to fall it came like a huge ocean suddenly j 
lifted high in the air and carried directly to 
St. Mathilde, where it descended and flooded * 
chateau, garden and streets. It was a terrible, i 
noiseful night, and Francois, who sat within j 
the dimly-lighted chamber of Monsieur, shud- i 
dered and silently prayed. 

When Madam came in from a brief rest, 
Francois was half asleep. Madam was unu- 
sually — remarkably — tender that night. Fran- j 
cois remembered it long afterward, so very 
tender. 

“ Poor boy,” said she, “ you are wearing 
yourself out. Go and rest a little — I will 
watch.” 

Monsieur turned uneasily and opened his I 
eyes. It seemed to cost him a great effort — a 
very great effort. Madam, noting he was rous- 
ing, said she would prepare his medicine, and 
quitted the room. Monsieur’s eyes seemed to 
follow her to the door. Then his hands, by a 
great effort, were placed on the boy’s knees. , 


MISS MARSTON. 


25 


' “ Francois,” he whispered painfully, “ do not 
i leave me ; whatever happens do not leave me. 
; The medicine — it is burning me, you must — ” 
I Then he sank on the pillows, unconscious, and 
Francois, alarmed, was attempting to arouse 
I him when Madam entered with the tray. 

I “ I will wait,” she said,” until he wakes 
: again. Where is Monsieur le Docteur ” 

I “ Monsieur his friend did not come, and he 
I has gone to Marseilles to consult ; the storm 
i has detained him.” 

I “ Well, I will watch ; you may go and 
! rest.” 

: Francois started to leave. At the door, 

I Monsieur’s words, which had been haunting 
him ever since their utterance, came over him 
; with a double significance : “ Whatever happens 
i do not leave me.” Hesitatingly he turned ; 
finally walked irresolutely to the bedside. 

Madam glanced up in surprise. 

I “ Why do you not go .? ” she asked. 

“ I — I had rather stay — believe me. Madam, 
I desire to stay. I am not fatigued — neither 
drowsy nor fatigued — I will remain.” 


26 


M/SS MARSTON. 


The dangerous color he had noted in the 
garden came again to Madam’s cheeks. 

“ Stupid,” she said, “ you cannot stay. This 
matter has gone too far. He is my husband, 
and I will attend to him.” 

Francois hardly heeded. He only realized 
that Monsieur had said he should not go, and 
that he must not go. Dumbly, as though he ] 
had hardly comprehended Madam’s words, ’ 
he stood before her. 

“ Go,” she said finally, rising and pointing ; 
to the door ; “ I do not want you — go ! ” 

Yet he moved not, and Madam, upon whose! 
face the dangerous color seemed to glow like a| 
furnace stepped toward him, as though, with ! 
her slight strength, she would force him from 
the room. 

“ Do not come near me — I would not like to 
strike you ; you, so beautiful, so weak and — so ’ 
wicked.” He never knew just why he added j 
those two words. They seemed to force them- 
selves through his teeth. 

“ Wicked ! ” 

There might have been a million thoughts 


M/SS MARSTON. 


27 


running through Madam’s little head as she 
iterated the adjective. From her face one 
would judge she was both puzzled and terri- 
fied, so strange a look did it wear. 

“You know something.?” she said, half 
wildly, suddenly grasping the boy’s wrists. 
“You have learned something, you French 
dog. You are not the idiot you seem — I 
should have discovered that long ago. He 
has told you something — what is it ? ” 

“ Take your hands from mine,” he said, 
pushing her. rudely backward. “ Y ou are 
right, I do know something — Monsieur has 
been poisoned.” 

There was a tremendous noise at the door 
just then, and someone called for Francois. 
Yet it seemed not to divert the r tention of 
either woman or boy, for, when a lessenger 
entered, there were both, standing mutely in 
the centre of the room, looking steadfastly 
into each other’s eyes. 

Oliver Ferri had, while lost in the storm, 
fallen from his horse and been seriously hurt. 
It was a matter of life and death, and Francois 


28 


M/SS MARSTON. 


was entreated to go at once to the bedside. 

“ Monsieur is very ill ; I cannot leave him !” 

“ And thy father at the door of death — 
ungrateful boy! He calls thee every minute 
of his suffering existence.” 

“ I cannot go.” 

“ He lives but to see you.” 

There was a pause. 

“ You hear ? ” questioned Francois of Madam, 
“ He lives but to see me. I must go — it is my 
duty. Even Monsieur, whom I regard, whom 
I esteem, whom I love, must wait. He has 
asked me not to leave — but I cannot obey.” 

The messenger had gone. At the door 
Francois turned, rushed to the table where the 
medicine tray lay, and, opening the window, 
flung it, with its contents, into the garden. 
There was a sudden gust of wind and a damp 
cloud of rain apparent for a moment, during 
which the lamp was extinguished. He closed 
the window. Then they stood in the fire- 
light these two. Shadows danced, grew and 
diminished on the walls. A great flame swept 
up the chimney. The storm howled, rattling 


M/SS MARSTON. 


29 

the window and swishing the boughs of trees. 
A sheet of lightning lit the room with its glare 
for a moment, turning every article white 
durinsf the brief time it lins^ered. Madam, 
although usually so self-contained, was in truth 
little more than a girl, and the remarkable 
suddenness with which the occurrences pre- 
sented themselves to her mind vented itself in 
a low, terrified expression, as she sank into 
the large arm-chair beside the bed. The 
boy strode over to her — they might have 
been brother and sister, so young were they 
and, in the firelight, so strikingly similar. 

“ Listen,” he said, gazing sternly into her eyes 
— eyes from which all hauteur, arrogance, cold- 
hess, had departed ; eyes in which there was 
nothing but an agonizing, mute appeal for mercy. 
“ I shall come back here — come as quickly as 
I may. I am but a boy, a peasant, a French 
dog if you will, but I have eyes and ears — I 
can think, can reason You or he^ or both 
of you, are committing a horrible crime. 
Do you realize what you are doing } Do 


30 


M/SS MARSTON. 


you know that you may earn the title of 
murderess? ” 

He had again reached the door and again 
turned. She arose, totteringly, and staggered 
toward the firelight — so weak, so terrified, even 
so childish. Had this boy, this dog, as she 
had termed him, no pity ? Had he so much 
will ? When she had reached the rug he was 
at her side again, had seized her wrists, and 
was looking down at her white, terrified face. 

“ They use the knife for criminals in 
France,” he said fiercely, “ turn back ! ” Then 
he rushed toward the door, and was this time 
gone. For a moment she was as modeled 
marble. The one sentence had seemed to 
more clearly show than all the strange events 
of the night the enormity of the pending 
crime. Then, with a horrible suddenness, 
another flash from the storm-swept heavens, 
a deep groan from the sufferer on the bed, 
the loud re-echoing crash of the great inn 
door as it closed behind Francois, and she 
sank weakly upon the rug. 


MISS MARSTOM. 


3 » 


EPISODE IV. 

INDISCRETION OF THE ACCUSED. 

In a half-darkened room at the inn, Madam 
sat waiting. She was dressed wholly in black, 
and was a sombre, miserable, yet determined, 
woman. Her brother, looking from the 
window to the north, seemed lost in thought. 
Finally two entered, one the innkeeper, the 
other, a tall, brown man with a military 
bearing. Madam and Madam’s brother looked 
quickly up, and Madam arose. 

“ It is he you sent for — Monsieur, the Chief 
of the Gens d’armes'' said the little innkeeper, 
bowing himself out. Madam motioned the 
newcomer to a seat, but he remained standing. 
Then she attempted to speak but failed, and 
looked appealingly toward her brother. 

“ We have sent for you,” said the latter, 
“ because we feel your services are needed. 
There has been a crime committed.” 


3 * 


M/SS MARSTON. 


“ That much I already believe — I would 
have come ; you need not have sent for me.” 

Madam started. “ Is the belief general ? ” 
she questioned. 

“ No,” returned the Chief coldly, signalling 
the brother to continue. 

“ Monsieur, the husband of Madam, was this 
morning found dead, directly beneath the 
window of his chamber. For some time Mon- 
sieur has been ill, the victim, as we believed — 
Madam, myself, and the physician — of a slow, 
destroying fever. So serious did his condition 
become that Monsieur the doctor yesterday 
went to Marseilles for assistance. Hardly 
could he have left the village when a great 
delirium began and Monsieur had to be held, 
on several occasions, in the bed. Toward 
night he calmed. Attending him was one 
Francois Ferri, a son of Oliver Ferri, whom 
you doubtless know. Prior to his illness Mon- 
sieur met Francois and seemed to be greatly 
attached to him — an unfortunate attachment, 
you will say, when I have finished. During 
his illness, particularly in delirium. Monsieur’s 


MISS MARS TON. 


33 


attitude grew to one of dislike against the boy. 
Not wishing to offend Francois, Madam con- 
cealed the state of affairs as long as was 
possible, and allowed him to remain, thinking, 
perhaps. Monsieur’s attitude would again 
change as suddenly as before. During his 
delirium yesterday. Monsieur became violent 
whenever the boy approached the bedside. 
Last night Madam requested him to depart. 
He refused and, in a rage, struck her. The 
bruise you may yet see. Then, as fate willed, 
the boy was summoned home by the illness of 
his father. Before going he again struck 
Madam, and when I entered later — having 
been detained at a cottage by the storm — I 
found her prostrate and insensible. For a 
part of the night I watched at Monsieur’s bed- 
side, calling toward morning, Pierre, the land- 
lord. Unfaithful to his trust he fell asleep, and 
when Monsieur was found beneath his window 
this morning, attributed it to the belief that, 
during his delirium, the unfortunate man had 
risen from the bed, sought the window, and 
either fallen or leaped. To the villagers the 


34 


M/SS MARSTON. 


explanation seemed satisfactory — not so with 
me. Examining the body I find evidences of 
finger-marks about the neck. They would 
tend to show Monsieur had been strangled.” 

Madam, whom this cold, matter-of-fact recital 
had deeply affected, was assisted from the 
room by her brother and taken to Madam 
Conde’s apartment, where she fell on the bed, 
sobbing. When Monsieur returned he found 
the chief of the gens d'armes pacing the floor, 
as was his custom, and has been the custom of 
chiefs of gens d'armes for ages. 

“ You have suspicion as to who committed 
the crime ? ” questioned the walker, stopping 
short. 

“ Very strong ones.” 

“ Do you allude to the innkeeper ? 

“ To be brief, I refer to the boy.” 

“ As I supposed. What are your grounds.? ” 

“ They are as yet of little value, but 
sufficient, I think, to detain him. One thing 
I have discovered is that the watcher was 
drugged — and could not have heard even the 
chateau fallinjsr^ Another is that Francois 


M/SS MARSTON’. 


35 

remained at his father’s cottage but two hours, 
returning, however, in the early morning. 
During his absence I believe he visited the inn 
and committed the crime. These, Monsieur, 
are my suspicions.” 

“ Where is he now ? ” 

“ With the body of Monsieur.” 

“ Have him called.” 

The command was obeyed. When Francois 
entered, pale and hollow-eyed with watching 
and weeping, he confronted both the chief of 
the gens (Parmes and Madam’s brother so 
suddenly that the latter, with a surprised, even 
terrified exclamation, retired to the more 
shadowy portion of the room. 

“ I have business with you,” said the Chief 
abruptly. “ Your name ? ” 

“ Francois Ferri.” 

“ Your age ? ” 

“ Seventeen.” 

“ Do you know the man found dead this 
morning ? ” 

“ Oui, Monsieur — very well.” 

“ His wife ? ” 


36 


MISS MARSTON. 


“ Yes, Monsieur.” 

“ Who is this man ? ” 

“ Her brother — I have been told.” 

“You attended Monsieur?” 

“ For many weeks.” 

“ Did you know his'ailment ? ” 

A great many thoughts passed through 
Francois’ mind. He glanced contemptuously 
in the direction of Madam’s brother, then 
opened his lips to speak. The man in the 
shadows grew very white and very desperate. 
A faint sound of sobbing came through the 
corridor — a sound so very pitiful and heart- 
stirring. 

“ Answer me.” 

“ I did not.” 

The man in the shadows breathed heavily. 

“ Was it fever ? ” 

“ It may have been.’ 

“ Was it fever ? ” sternly. 

“ I believe it was.” 

“ Was Monsieur ever delirious ? ” 

“ No, Monsieur, never 1 ” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


37 

“ He lies,” came from the man in the 
shadows. 

“ You are sure of this ? ” 

“ I am sure.” 

“ Francois Ferri, where were you between 
the hours of three and five this morning .? ” 

So suddenly had the chief changed both his 
tone and his manner of questioning, that Fran- 
cois was at loss for reply. 

“ Where were you ? ” repeated the man 
sternly. 

“ I will not say.” 

“ You know who I am ? ” 

“ The chief of the gens d'armes, but you 
have no right to question me as you are doing. 
I will answer you when you adopt a less insult- 
ing tone ; you speak as though I were a 
criminal ! ” 

“ You are a criminal ! ” 

Astounded, stupefied, the boy started back — 
almost fell. His great eyes dilated, and his 
face became colorless. 

Then, when thoughts rushed by thousands 
through his whirling brain, ending only, as was 


38 MISS MARSTON. 

his hot-tempered way, in the belief that he had 
been insulted and wronged, he found utterance 
and sprang toward his accuser like an enraged 
wild-cat, his voice hoarse with fury. 

“ You who call me a criminal, you, the chief 
of the gens d' armes — whoever you are, you lie ! 
Is this a conspiracy between you two t /, a 
criminal ? You ” 

The Chief, a very strong man, seized Fran- 
cois and flung him on the floor, just as the 
latter, in his half-blind rage, was springing for 
the neck of the insulter. 

“ Lie there, you peasant dog,” he said, kick- 
ing him brutally. 

“ Oh, not that, not that ! ” interposed 
Madam’s brother, coming forward when the 
heavy boot was again raised. 

The Chief, slipping glistening manacles on 
the boy’s wrists, raised him rudely from the 
floor and pushed him toward the door. In 
the corridor they were met by Madam. There 
was a scuffle, a pause, and Francois stood 
beside her, his imprisoned hands stretched out 


M/SS MARSTON. 


39 


before him, his beautiful eyes looking sorrow- 
fully into hers. 

“ Do not fear,” he said with wonderful 
calmness as she started back, “ I would not 
injure you. Do you see my condition? You 
have done this. Your husband has been 
murdered — they say by me.” Then he was 
again brutally seized and hurried from the inn. 
She did not see him again, but the reproachful, 
pathetic look in the great brown eyes, haunted 
her forever. 

******** 

The enormity of the crime at St. Mathilde 
shook Southern France to the sea-walls. That 
one so young and — people would say — so 
apparently innocent and childish looking, 
could have committed so terrible a deed 
seemed really beyond belief. People might 
not trust their own sons, they said in Mar- 
seilles. There had been a pretext of a trial — a 
trial where an evil reputation was easily 
manufactured for a consideration. There was 
no direct evidence. People remarked the 
prisoner’s indiscretion when he attacked the 


40 


M/SS MARS TON. 


chief of \}c\& gens d a-ymes after the latter had 
‘‘ trapped him into a confession.” It was just 
such a trial as one may see in all civilized 
countries — just such a trial as a spy might get 
at an enemy’s hands. Like all the events in 
Francois’ short life, it had been brief — 
mercifully brief, perhaps, but horrible. He 
really could not realize at first how it all 
came about — how he, Francois Ferri, was a 
manacled galley-slave. Then he pondered — 
thought for many days ; thought and studied, 
and learned to say, as all humanity eventually 
learns to say — “ I will hope and wait.” 

A man and woman standing on the deck of 
a large steamer as it pushed majestically 
through the waters of the Mediterranean, 
looked back at the great picture they were 
leaving. 

“ That,” said he, pointing to a massive stone 
building, “ is the prison.” 

She looked at it curiously. “ It is a very 
sombre affair,” she said, “one might die forgot- 
ten there.” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


41 


“ Many have died forgotten,” he returned, 
“ and in that place a galley-slave is not to be 
envied.” 

Then they watched the fading picture of 
Marseilles until it seemed to dissolve in the 
sea. 


42 


M/SS MARSTON 


PART I. 


CHAPTER I. 

ADVENT OF A HEROINE. 

Penn Escanes, who was intently watching, 
from his obscure position near the balustrade 
at the head of the stairs, the animated mass of 
people in the hotel lobby, considered it a very 
mixed crowd, taken as a whole — bordering on 
the cosmopolitan, he thought. He might single 
out a few he knew, but they were in the minor- 
ity, and he did not particularly admire any one 
of them. In the very rotund individual with a sus- 
piciously red nose he recognized Major A Peck- 
Suit, very conceited and somewhat wealthy, 
and principally conspicuous for being one of 
the original discoverers, and a stockholder in 
the famous Colorado Consolidated. The Major 


M/SS MARSTON. 


43 


Stamped his name on the hotel register in red, 
even letters, and informed the uninitiated hotel 
clerk that he was a “man of the mines.” 

The Major talked very loud, drank a great 
deal more than was really necessary for an in- 
dividual of his age and illustrious standing, and 
took peculiar pride in referring to the fact that 
he “ had earned his money and knew how to 
spend it.” The Major was eccentric, but Penn 
admired him. 

Down in one corner moodily sat a disap- 
pointed politician, and beside him was a wealthy 
ranchman with a very appalling reputation. A 
woman passed through the crowd, who had 
poisoned her husband, but been declared not 
guilty by a tender-hearted jury. There was a 
bank clerk who was spending his winter’s salary 
and making a wholesale idiot of himself ; there 
were two or three adventurers, and a silly old 
bank president who had dropped from the 
clouds and was an admirer of a twice-divorced, 
but attractive matron from “ the coast.” These 
Escanes knew — and did not admire. 

“ You truly have the patience of a saint- I 


44 


M/SS MARSTON. 


have kept you waiting almost half an hour ; but 
that’s the fault of the dust you know — it ac- 
tually poured down my back. Give me a Man- 
itou carriage-ride for dust every time.” 

“To tell the truth, I had about forgotten your 
existence, Jack. It was a vice, rather than a 
virtue, that kept me here — I was mentally pick- 
ing some of these people to pieces.” 

“ You are not unknown here, then ? ” 

“ Not wholly — there is the Major, you know; 
but I do not particularly care to cultivate my 
other quondam acquaintances. They may be 
all right, as the world goes, but you see I know 
something of their histories and, unfortunately, 
familiarity still breeds contempt.” 

“ There are whole volumes of history walk- 
ing around down there, I suppose,” volunteered 
Aumerle. 

“ Thick, badly-printed volumes, bound with a 
deceptive cover and entitled ‘ I am not what I 
am 

“ Nonsense.” 

“ Shakespeare.” 

“ We are not all villains.” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


45 

“ The majority of us are entitled to an elec- 
tion certificate on that issue.” 

“ To be brief and slummy, we are all liars 
and thieves ? ” 

“ I will say we are, just, as they tell us in the 
mining camp, for the sake of argument — 
although I detest argument.” 

“ You cannot argue with me — it would be 
disgusting, irritating, unsatisfactory, and we 
should miss a good dinner.” 

They walked downstairs, pushed their way 
through the mass in the lobby and entered the 
dining-room. There was a rumbling, jarring 
crash of dishes, a tingling of silver, and a sound 
of trivial conversation carried on in a key just 
high enough to mingle unmelodiously with the 
other noises. Every one was talking at once 
and eating a great deal in a very short time. 
The place bore the appearance of a ten-minute 
railway eating-station rather than the dining 
room of a great summer resort. But it was 
decidedly American, and unmistakably western. 

“ Have you noticed who this evening’s arrivals 
were ? ” asked Aumerle indifferently. 


46 


M/SS MARSTON'. 


“ There were but five.” 

“ And they .f* ” 

“ I remember but two — they are now being 
seated at the table opposite ours. One a young 
lady, Miss Marston, I believe ; and the other, I 
should judge, her companion — an elderly lady 
with a silly twitter and a masculine method of 
writing her name. Mrs. Sowders, I think the 
hotel clerk informed me. I am already inter- 
ested in them.” 

Aumerle glanced in the direction indicated. 
To Escanes’ astonishment both ladies slightly 
bowed in recognition of his companion. 

“ You are acquainted } ” 

“ But slightly. Miss Marston and I met in 
Chicago some weeks ago, through an introduc- 
tion from Harry Ballard. I did not suppose 
she would even remember me.” 

“ She is an attractive young woman,” decided 
Escanes. 

“ So I think,” returned his friend, carelessly. 
“ Are you looking for a heroine .i* ” 

“ I am always looking for heroines. Miss 
Marston would make an admirable one — just 


MrSS MARSTON. 


47 

as she is. ‘ Fancy,’ say I to the absorbed reader, 

‘ a trimly-built girl, just budding into woman- 
hood ; a wealth of brown hair, streaked with 
an enchanting shade of bronze, falling from her 
clear, resolute and charming face ; large, melt- 
ing eyes, bewitching mouth — ’ ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, Penn, don’t give your 
next one melting eyes and a bewitching mouth 
— they all do that, and you have kept it up ever 
since you commenced to scribble your abomi- 
nable and uninteresting love stories. Besides, 
Miss Marston doesn’t look at all as you describe 
her — unless in respect to the bronze-brown 
hair,” he added apologetically. 

“ Well, I will let her melting eyes pass — or 
melt. But she has lovely eyes just the same, 
hasn’t she ? ” 

“ So you say.” 

“ Brown, too. Pshaw, I can arouse no inter- 
est in you whatever concerning fair femininity. 
Has Miss Marston parents living ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles ? ” 

“ My dear boy, I know absolutely nothing 


48 


M/SS MARSTON. 


concerning the lady, further than that she is, 
or at least was, introduced to me as Miss Mars- 
ton. I see her to-day for the second time dur- 
ing my existence.” 

Aumerle was busy with the chops just then, 
and made no further remarks concerning the 
lady during the meal. 

Mrs. Sowders was usually on the look-out for 
acquaintances during her travels. She missed 
no opportunity, yet was properly discriminative. 
She could repel or attract — ^just as she wished. 

A forced introduction to some person with 
whom she was not favorably impressed, went no 
further. The individual who found favor in 
her eyes would not thirst for recognition. Mrs. 
Sowders judged on the instant, was not always 
WTong in her impressions, and was even enthu- 
siastic over those she did admire. When she 
entered the dining-room that evening, her quick, 
bright eyes noted nearly every occupant in a 
surprisingly short time. She recognized Au- 
merle and so informed her companion. 

“ There is the young man we met in Chicago 
—Aumerle, I believe. He lives out here some- t 


M/SS MARSTON. 


49 

where. I think we had better bow if he looks 
this way.” 

Miss Marston, who usually found it profit- 
able to follow Mrs. Sowders’ suggestions in 
matters of this kind, considerately but coldly 
acknowledged the young man’s presence. 

“ We met just twenty-three young men in 
Chicago — I suppose this is one of them,” said 
the young lady in a slightly remonstrative tone. 

“ The eighteenth, my dear,” her companion 
said promptly. “ Young Ballard introduced 
us one night at the theatre.” 

Miss Marston decided she hadn’t the slight- 
est remembrance of the occasion, but wondered 
if Aumerle intended staying at Manitou any 
length of time, for if he had any sort of life he 
would certainly keep things from being terribly 
stupid. 


4 


50 


MISS MARSTON. 


CHAPTER 11. 

INSIDE HISTORY. 

The following day Escanes met, and secured 
an introduction to the new-comer. Like the 
majority of his little Manitou episodes the 
affair occurred on the stairs. 

“ Ah, those stairs,” said he, “ show me a sum- 
mer resort without stairs, and I’ll show you a 
perfect poke of a place.” Miss Marston and 
her matronly chaperone were going up ; Es- 
canes and Aumerle going down. Miss Marston 
nodded pleasantly at the latter, stopped and 
made the customary remark about Colorado 
atmosphere. Escanes did not hear the remark 
— at any rate Aumerle agreed with it. 

Seizing the opportunity the young man pre- 
sented his friend. Then followed a brief chat, 
during which it was developed the two ladies 
were “ doing ” the Centennial State with Mani- 
tou and the mountains as the chief attractions. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


51 

a lifting of hats, “ Good afternoon,” in four 
voices, and a separation. The two gentlemen 
walked out on the lower terrace, one to smoke, 
one to observe. 

“ Ah, then this is the novelist of whom 1 
have so often heard,” Miss Marston had re- 
marked. 

“It is the writer of stories who has an un- 
enviable reputation,” was Escane’s modest 
reply. 

William Penbrook Escanes, as the literary 
world knew him, and “ Penn ” Escanes, as he 
had been somewhat familiarly called during his 
reportorial and Bohemian days, was a financial 
literary success. Young, possibly not twenty- 
three, he was boyish, even effeminate in manner, 
not at all the man to count his friends by hun- 
dreds, however numerous his admirers might be. 
There was something both repelling and attract- 
ive about him — one could never strictly account 
for either of the seeming second-natures. He 
was very thin, brown, and scarcely prepossess- 
ing from a physical point of view, but he had a 
refined, even handsome, face, while his whole 


52 


MISS MARS TOM. 


art of expressive commendation or condemna- 
tion shone from his eyes. And they were 
wonderful eyes— orbs which he indeed scarcely 
knew the power of, although they so frequently 
seemed to speak his very thoughts before he 
could form words to verbally express them. 
Escanes was very severe on a large class of 
people he had once known and with whom he 
had even been intimate, but rudely given them 
the popular American “ go-by ” when once his 
sun was in the ascendant. He had been a 
markedly peculiar individual during the whole 
of his natural existence. He was unfortunate, 
or at least considered himself so, in being 
introduced to the world at a too early stage of 
his career. 

Born in a disagreeable western state he had 
been taken, when a child, still further toward 
the wonderful empire of the setting sun, to the 
roughest of western mining camps in exist- 
ence. It was generally understood by immedi- 
ate and little concerned relatives that he should 
either thrive amid these occidental surround- 
ings or die. At first the person concerned ex- 


M/SS MARSTON'. 


53 


pressed no regard which road fate should choose, 
but finally resolved not to let his demise go 
on record until he had made a struggle of some 
sort. At an extremely susceptible age he was 
placed as errand boy in a store, a position from 
which he graduated through various experi- 
ences in grocery marts, clothing emporiums, 
coal offices, and railway depots. Although not 
wholly placid, his youthful career was almost 
distressingly uneventful to every one but him- 
self. Although thrown constantly into the 
society of men and women, he held an aversion, 
even shrank from intimate association with his 
fellow creatures. There were, of course, the 
usual friends, but even at this early period 
Escanes was so decidedly, silently analytical that 
they numbered but few and were extremely 
puzzled at his dreamy eccentricities. There 
was one marked characteristic — and uncontrol- 
lable passion for the drama. His peculiar views 
on histrionians and dramatic productions in 
general, which he reserved to discuss mentally 
during the tedious daily grind, one day found 
their way abstractedly to paper and then, some- 


54 


M/SS MARSTO^r. 


how, found their way to a newspaper office — 
typical, if not ideal, western journalistic head- 
quarters, where every one worked in their shirt- 
sleeves and scolded everyone else for imaginary 
wrongs. 

“ This is somewhat crudely written,” remarked 
the managing-editor to his assistant, stopping 
the busy pens for a time, “ but the ideas are 
original and worth preserving. You might 
look it over and send it in as editorial matter. 
Who is the author, I wonder } ” 

“ The initials on the last page are ‘ W. 
P. E.’ ” 

“ It was evidently written by a woman,” the 
editor observed, “ and will hardly find appre- 
ciation with the majority of our readers. We 
will use it, however.” 

When Escanes saw the initial production of 
his pencil boldly-leaded in the editorial columns 
of the great hyphenated daily, he was extremely 
flattered, but not surprised. He had always 
believed his pet theories would some day, and 
in some manner, find their way to publicity, 
although he had never made frantic attempts 


M/SS MARSTON. 


55 


to parade them. At his leisure he contributed 
an article corresponding to his, first and was 
rewarded by seeing it, also, “ posted conspic- 
uously.” 

Finally there came a short, business-like let- 
ter, as puzzlingly chirographical as such mis- 
sive usually are, from the managing editor. It 
was pointedly brief, written on glazed paper, 
and began : “ My dear Madam.” My dear 
Madam was requested to furnish a weekly 
feuilleton^ for which would be furnished a 
“ slight compensation.” In reply “ Madam ” 
gave gratuitously the important information 
relative to her sex, consented to furnish the 
desired articles, but declined the inconsiderate 
compensation. For months thereafter, the 
feuilleton of Phillipe was a feature with the 
Record- Review that met with even a remark- 
able success, for the great mining camp was 
not without its literary critics. The weekly 
letters even caused discussion among this class, 
and finally the newspapers began clipping some 
of the brighter little observations of this very 
original Phillipe — yet all the time the writer 


M/SS MARSTON. 


56 

plodded along at an employment not only 
distasteful but even revolting to him. He 
walked past the office of the Review twenty 
times a day, passed the great editor of that 
extremely well conducted daily whenever he 
went to meals, and not infrequently heard 
animated discussions in restaurants on the very 
articles his pen had produced — yet no one had 
even the remotest idea that this white-faced 
boy was in any way responsible for the little 
humorous indiscretions of the wonderful Phil- 
lipe. In time a communication reached the 
post-office box of W. P. E., containing the 
information that the Record-Review was in 
urgent need of a reporter — not a journalist, an 
editor or a general manager, but merely a 
reporter. The editor was free to confess that 
he admired W. P. E’s work, and thought, if 
the latter so desired, he might take advantage 
of the opportunity. 

W. P. E. made himself known. 

“ You are only a boy ! ” exclaimed the editor 
bewilderedly. 

“ Not my fault,” grimly remarked the youth. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


57 


“ I have only been on earth sixteen years. I 
suppose I am a prodigy — but I can’t help it.” 

“ And you did this work ? Impossible ! ” 

“ I shall convince you,” said Escanes as he 
seated himself and “ ground out ” an essay on 
a given subject. 

Reportorial duty was full of ups and downs. 
Escanes did good work for his paper, but did 
it under difficulties no other scribbler on the 
staff experienced. He was too young. People 
couldn’t bring themselves to actually believe 
he performed the work with which he was 
credited — and frequently, therefore, others re- 
ceived the credit for what he really did do. It 
was very depressing, very discouraging. 

There were those who even took the fatigu- 
ing trouble to inform the young man that he 
had no business where he was — that he should 
have been in school. Very few spoke seriously 
to him, and he gradually grew disgusted with 
the human race in general. A crowning 
abhorrence for his fellow-reporters came upon 
him when he one day chanced to hear one of 
them unblushingly take the full credit for an 


M/SS MARSTON. 


58 

exceptionally well written article of his own 
production. Penn was not a Sidney Carton, 
although he preferred a back seat to an open 
disturbance in meeting by demanding his 
right to a front one. At 19, chafing under 
these outrages, he decided he would do some- 
thing for which no one would dare to take 
credit, criticise him however much they would. 
Since his main crime had consisted in his 
being too young and hardly brazen enough to 
push himself, he determined on a stroke that 
would at least place him on a fairer footing 
in the world. Then followed a doubly-busy 
life. Finally, after the customary tedious 
delays and disheartening disappointments, there 
appeared a modest little book which attracted 
some attention from the press, and a great 
amount of comment among those who knew 
the author. There was little consolation in it 
from a financial point of view, but it was a 
stepping-stone, and the second, which followed 
quickly, firmly established the young man in 
the great, disappointing literary world. In 
the mountain city he might have been the 


M/SS MARSTON. 


59 

lion of the hour — an honor which he scorn- 
fully refused, and, with an intensely human, but 
wholly irreligious, delight, passed his former 
defamers coolly by with a most coldly sarcastic 
and superior visage. He was even discourte- 
ous, now that fickle success had consented 
to be wooed. Did Mrs. Rocks-Chloride re- 
quest his presence at a “ literary dinner, the 
chances were exceedingly favorable for Mrs. 
Chloride never receiving so much as an 
acknowledgment of her daintily-penned note. 

“ Look here,” he exploded one day, in 
Aumerle’s presence, flinging an invitation be- 
fore him with a disgusted gesture, “ what a 
wholesouled lot of hypocrites they all are. 
Mrs. Malburn writes that without my presence 
her ‘ afternoon ’ will be as cheerless as a day in 
February. Do you know, old fellow,” he 
confided, leaning seriously forward, “ that such 
letteis only serve to feed my fire of resentment 
against these people .? Two years ago that 
note would have been a sesame to fairyland to 
a poor, outcast, struggling boy. It would have 
been almost too glorious to seem true. To-day 


6o 


M/SS MARSTON. 


that boy is dead — numbered among my extinct 
selves. There is only a cynical, unchristian 
man in his place.” 

When it became unbearable to daily see his 
former associates — with whom he seemed to 
take peculiar pride in making himself wholly 
intolerable — Escanes bade farewell to the few 
friends who had remained through darkness 
and lisiht, whose hearts could never change, 
despite the eccentricities of years, and went 
out, as he had always longed to go, into the 
great wide world to which he had earned the 
key. His later successes had enabled him to 
provide a home for an aged mother, partially 
assist in supplying the demands for charity in 
his own novel and somewhat astonishing way, 
and to travel where fancy took him, be it to 
the poles or the equator. Despite his cynicism 
he believed firmly in several things — among 
others. Jack Aumerle. 

A striking contrast was Aumerle to Escanes. 
In only one particular did they seem to directly 
agree — both were pronounced rovers. It had 
been a matter for comment that the two got 


M/SS MARS TON. 


6i 

along so well, when their distinct tastes were 
taken into consideration, but somehow they did. 
It was a sort of mutual understanding that 
whenever Escanes became gloomy, as is the 
exclusive privilege of a literary genius, his com- 
panion should leave him severely to himself. 
Consequently there were surprisingly few irri- 
table collisions. John Aumerle was the son 
of Rutherford Aumerle, of Colorado. Old 
Aumerle was a weak, kindly individual who had 
worked in the mines, and didn’t much care who 
became acquainted with the fact. He was char- 
itable, too decidedly lenient with the world, and 
suffered by the usual impositions, as a conse- 
quence. 

During the days when old Aumerle was down 
in the black, wet depths of the Great Hindoo 
mining claim, John was struggling with the 
long, neatly-written, but generally depressing 
columns of figures in the account books of the 
Silver Brick bank. He was somewhat older 
than Escanes, and a firm admirer of the journal- 
ist. Their good fortunes seemed to come sim- 
ultaneously. Aumerle, pere^ began shipping 


62 


M/SS MAA’STOJV 


from his lease, and “ The Way of the World” 
went into an edition of forty thousand on the 
same day. Young Aumerle was a bright, hand- 
some fellow, and a leading feature in such a class 
of higher society as the mining camp held. He 
was as undiscriminatingly generous as his father, 
and when the Aumerle fortune began to assume 
proportions, both />ere and yfA became alarmed. 
“ They didn’t want too much money,” old Au- 
merle explained, as he handed a check for an 
enormous amount to the secretary of a Home 
for Unfortunates. Young Aumerle, with the 
Great Hindoo at his back, became a target for 
designing women with daughters, but, however 
generous he was with his money, he kept heart- 
free and managed to cleverly foil every little 
thrust at matrimony. An affair of the heart 
was something he had never seriously contem- 
plated. Escanes seldom referred to such a del- 
icate subject, and there was not sufficient inter- 
est in it for Aumerle to regard it seriously. 

They were at the great western watering 
place, these two — some called them eccentric — 
young men, it being, singularly enough, merely 


M/SS MARSTON. 63 

a stopping point on a tour through the west, as 
with Miss Marston and her elderly companion. 

“ Mr. Aumerle is a gentlemanly young fel- 
low,” observed Mrs. Sowders. “ I think it ex- 
tremely fortunate, Dorris, my dear, that we 
have met him. Mr. Escanes is more reserved, 
possibly, but at times so deliciously funny.” 

*• They are undoubtedly proper young men,” 
acquiesced Miss Marston. “ We could certainly 
do no better than treat them with courtesy.” 


64 


M/SS MAJiSTOJ\r. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MISSES BRONSON. 

One need not be nearly so proper at Manitou 
as — even at Saratoga, one might say. Young 
ladies have been frequently known to coldly 
leave their chaperones and visit the caves in 
company with a newly-found acquaintance. 
Such a thing is never commented upon, for all 
young men at Manitou are eminently respect- 
able — at least while at Manitou. 

“ Chaperones are so stupid,” said the English 
young lady who, strangely enough, set the cus- 
tom. One must always confine one’s self to 
such a silly line of conversation when they are 
around, and it becomes decidedly a bore.” 

Mrs. Sowders, being a very sensible chaperone^ 
saw no direct harm in the little daily excursions 
of her charge and the handsome Mr. Aumerle. 
The latter was, as she had said, a very proper 


M/SS MARSTON. 


65 

personage, while Dorris was too level-headed to 
go too far on her own responsibility. So Mrs. 
Sowders submitted graciously to the Manitou 
custom regarding chaperones, and the two young 
people enjoyed the mountain sights as young 
people, outside the trammels of strict society, 
usually do. There were so many places of in- 
terest, too, that their time was fully occupied 
and they seemed to have been old-time friends 
after the first recognition in the dining-room. 

On an upper veranda, almost buried in a 
luxurious cushioned rocker, Aumerle was idly 
smoking. On the balustrade was Escanes, 
dreamily looking at the hazy, blue hills, lying 
against their crimson-slashed back ground. It 
was oppressively hot and delightfully quiet. 
The newspapers and the latest novels occupied 
the time of the hundreds of loungers on the 
piazzas. 

A carriage stopped. 

“ The ladies have returned,” announced Es- 
canes from his superior position. 

Aumerle dusted the ashes from his coat, gave 

an introductory cough, and remarked : “ Do 
S 


66 


M/SS MARSTON. 


you know, Penn, I think Miss Marston a very 
clever young woman ? ” 

“ I have reason to believe your thoughts run 
in that direction. At least you have kept me 
so informed ” 

“ I mean it too.” 

Escanes laughed. 

“ A charming young woman — and surely one 
to fall in love with.” 

“ Well, not exactly love. Don’t call it that. 
I admire Miss Marston.” 

“ As a sister, but — ” 

“ Don’t begin that now. I never thought 
seriously of love in all my life, and have no rea- 
son to begin now. It doesn’t follow one should 
be in love simply because one admires a young 
woman.” 

“ Let me see,” said Escanes, leaning against 
a post and lighting a cigarette, after the fashion 
of a stage-hero in a summer resort drama, “ we 
have been here, you and I, about two weeks. 
Miss Marston and the amiable widow — I find 
her amiable, though somewhat affected — 
scarcely seven days. Miss Marston has visited 


M/SS MARSTON. 67 

the places of interest — where so remote as to 
make a foot-journey fatiguing — in a dog-cart. 
You were the driver on every occasion, and 
that peculiar vehicle accommodated but two. 
The interesting chaperone has been left greatly 
to her own devices for amusement — or mine, 
and I’m a flattering success as a bore when I 
attempt to entertain Every evening, since the 
arrival of these two interesting ladies, you have 
voluntarily informed me that you consider Miss 
Marston a ‘ very charming young woman.’ You 
are right. She is all of that, and an uncom- 
monly sensible one too, but my exceeding famil- 
iarity with the expression you are constantly 
using is wearing upon me. 

“ By the way,” he said, suddenly, “ do you 
call her Dorris yet ? ” 

‘ No — of course not. A — although I did 
once — by mistake, of course. I corrected my- 
self at once.” 

“ Heavens! it is worse than I thought.” 

Aumerle simply laughed. 

“ You are seriously in love,” charged Escanes. 

“ I am not,” he returned. 


68 


M/SS MARS TON. 


“ I might demonstrate you were.” 

“ Do so.” 

“ Who is Miss Dorris Marston .? ” 

“ Wh — why — well, she’s Miss Marston, of 
Providence, of course. She’s no one else,” 
stammered the man in the chair. 

“ That’s convincing, isn’t it } What do you 
know of her ? ” 

“ Well — n — nothing, to tell the truth,” was 
the somewhat uneasy confession. “ I never 
turn back pages when there’s no possible rea- 
son.” 

“ In a matter of this kind, it is essentially 
important that back pages should be turned. I 
have been reading them over, thanks to the 
amiable chaperone., who kindly did the turning. 
Apropos to this, I am becoming quite interested 
in the chaperone. She calls me ‘ her boy ’ now, 
so you see I am no longer unprotected. Well, 
Miss Marston has neither father, mother, uncle 
or aunt. They were all rich, and considerately 
died early. She has extremely distant relatives 
in New York, Mrs. Sowders says, and a brother 
somewhere in existence. A sister died. The 


M/SS MARSTON. 


69 

widow — she is actually a widow — was appointed 
guardian of Miss Marston’s wealth, which posi- 
tion she held until that interesting young indi- 
vidual became of age. For four years the two 
have been abroad. They are now touring the 
west and Mrs. Sowders ‘ weally knows where 
Salt Lake is situated ’ so familiar with its topog- 
raphy has she become — for which tuition I 
claim the exclusive honor.” 

“ I am glad your geographical instructions 
have turned so flatteringly to your credit,” said 
Aumerle, suddenly breaking off the conversa- 
tion and walking away. 

At the dinner table. Miss Marston took oc- 
casion to present Mr, J. Andrew Herrick. Mr. 
Herrick was a relative of Major A. Peck-Suit, 
and evidently considered his uncle an admirable 
model, for he divided his name similarly and 
dressed continually in brown-checks. The Ma- 
jor was fifty-six, and his nephew twenty-one. 
J. Andrew, who came to Manitou that day, had 
been presented to Mrs. Sowders and her charge, 
by the Major himself, and at once camped on 
Miss Marston’s trail. He confided to the quar- 


70 


MISS MARSTON, 


tet at the dinner table that he was just return- 
ing from his initial visit east, and remarked, 
with an apparent satisfaction, that he cared 
blamed little for Boston, New York, or any 
other place bearing a semblance to metropoli- 
tanism. “ There is so much hurry and heart- 
lessness,” he said, “ no one looks out for any 
one but himself.” There was a certain satis- 
faction, Mr, Herrick observed, in having first 
seen the light of day in a rough log-cabin some- 
where in a California gulch — a defile into which 
the sun, according to this young gentleman, 
shone brighter and with more genuine splendor 
than anywhere else. He hinted to his amused 
and interested listeners that he was actually 
impatient to get up into the mountains and 
down into the mines again. 

Mr. J. Andrew Herrick was brown, not at all 
unprepossessing, western in all but name, and 
had such an engaging manner and honest face 
despite his rugged mountain character, that he 
became a general favorite with the little party 
at the table before the meal was half concluded. 
What though he drank his coffee with a noise 


M/SS MARSTON. 


71 


similar to that produced by a water-spout, and 
managed his fork as though it were a sort of 
light-weight miner’s pick ? He believed in God 
but thought jDossibly the governor of Colorado 
might hold the more enviable position of the 
two — never speculated much either way. He 
was remarkably original, naturally refreshing, 
and afforded his new acquaintances a thor- 
oughly enjoyable half-hour in the dining-room. 

Aumerle expressed some surprise that Major 
Suit was an acquaintance of Miss Marston. 
Since their arrival at Manitou he had never 
even seen the Major converse with her. 

“ Our acquaintance only extends back to our 
meeting in Denver,” explained Mrs. Sowders. 
“ Dorris is interested with him in the — my 
dear, what is it ? I’ve completely forgotten ; 
that mine with the peculiar name that your 
uncle lost half his money in, and never got so 
much as a piece of stone from ” 

“ One of your western mines in all truth,” 
laughed Dorris, “ the ‘ Great Horn Spoon.’ ” 

“ That’s located down in Potter’s Gulch in 
Saguache county,” interrupted young Herrick. 


72 


MISS MARSTON. 


“ I know it perfectly — you must too, Escanes.” 

“Yes; I am thoroughly familiar with it,” 
returned the novelist dryly. “ It was a former 
custom to feed my wages from that spoon.” 

“ Yes, and my income,” remarked Aumerle. 
“ Penn and I were both ‘ taken in ’ on it. How 
strange we should all be interested in that 
great outrage.” 

“ Dorris and I intend going over before we 
leave Colorado,” said Mrs. Sowders, vaguely 
wondering where it really was, and what it 
looked like. “ We have nothing else to do, 
and want to get into the heart of the mountains 
and rest.” 

“We will all go,” decided Aumerle, “ and 
take the Major along to look at this great 
fraud he has been perpetrating.” 

“ You cry fraud too easily,” said Herrick. 
“ The best mines in the world have been 
worked for years before a pennyworth was ex- 
tracted. In the Carbonate camp the under- 
ground explorers are greatly aided and guided 
in their search by maps defining chutes, veins, 
etc., as they were found in other properties. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


73 


The Great Horn Spoon is developing unknown 
and unexplored territory — virgin ground, as 
they call it in the mining regions. It may 
become a great producer and may never 
become anything — the chances are as good 
one way as the other.” 

“ I suppose you are right,” said Miss Mars- 
ton, “ although I don’t know exactly what you 
mean by your mining terms — you will have to 
give us object lessons. I’m afraid. Since none 
of us really need the money consequent upon 
big shipments from the mine, I believe we 
would do well to wait until there are better 
reasons for complaint. As for myself, if the 
Horn Spoon ever does dish up wealth in any 
quantity, I shall have it all fed to the inmates 
of an institution for homeless children — or 
something of that sort.” 

“ And I to the inmates of a house for un- 
fortunate authors,” remarked Escanes gravely. 

“ You are both inclined charitably,” laughed 
Herrick. “ I don’t know what I really would do 
with my income.” 

Returning to his room early that evening 


74 


M/SS MARSTON. 


through the darkened hall, Herrick ran directly 
into a diminutive young lady dressed in gray 
and evidently in deep distress. 

“ I — it’s just too mean,” she sobbed gently 
into a white pocket handkerchief. 

“ I beg your pardon,” remarked the young 
man. 

“ I’m sure it’s granted,” she said looking up, 
“ Why, for goodness’ sake, it’s Wallie ! ” 

“ Hello, Jo — how’d you come here; where’s 
Gladys .? ” 

The gray young lady had thrown her hand- 
kerchief aside and was clinging desperately to 
Herrick, as though he were a sort of rocky 
refuge in a storm. 

“ Oh, Wallie, I’m so glad it’s you ! We have 
had a horrid, horrid time, and mamma has gone 
and Gladys is sick, and if it wasn’t for me I 
just don’t know what she would do, and I’m not 
well, and the man was just perfectly disgusting.” 
All of which was decidedly clear to the 
surprised young man. 

“ I — I don’t know just what you mean, Jo 
dear,” he said, somewhat awkwardly picking up 


MISS MARSTON. 


75 


the handkerchief, and attempting to stop the 
torrent of tears. 

“ We — well, you can’t expect me to explain 
it all at once, can you And you haven’t even 
kissed me, though you’ve been away a year — 
oh, everything’s just perfectly horrid ! ” 

“ Evidently,” remarked the refuge, making 
reparation. “ Only, how can you expect me to 
kiss you the very first thing ? — you didn’t think 
it proper when I left.” 

The gray young lady immediately resorted to 
tears. 

“ There you are, wanting to quarrel again — 
and — and — mamma gone and Gladys ill and 
that horrid man — ” 

“ Jo, you are an inexplicable mystery. If 
you will kindly walk over to the parlor I’ll sit 
and talk with you sensibly, but this is certainly 
no place for a spectacular scene. And, remem- 
ber, please, that you can’t tell everything in 
one breath. There is evidently a man in this 
case, and I want to know about him.” 

“ He was dreadful ! ” proclaimed the gray 
young lady. 


76 


M/SS MARSTON. 


“ Probably — all men are.” 

“ Perfectly horrid.” 

“ Well, well — he can wait awhile at any rate.” 
he responded soothingly as he led her way. 

“ N — not under the gas jet,” she remon- 
strated, when he entered the parlor; “ don’t let us 
sit there — every one can see I’ve been crying.” 

Herrick led her to a seat by the window, 
where the faint ripple of a running, hurrying 
little creek was just audible, and jumped on the 
window after she had seated herself. 

“ Now,” he said, quite seriously, “ begin at 
the beginning, and hurry right through.” 

“ Well, it was perfectly awful. We left Lead- 
ville this morning, mamma, Gladys and I, in- 
tending to come to Manitou for a two weeks 
stay. Before the train left a boy came to 
mamma with a dirty little yellow telegram that 
nearly upset her by the very sight. Papa was 
dreadfully ill, and she must go right on to Den- 
ver, it read. Gladys and I begged to go too, 
but she said it couldn’t be anything serious, and 
so bade us remain here at Manitou until we 
should hear from her. It was quite dark when 


M/SS MARSTON. 


77 


we got off at the depot, and a man with a great 
black coat came up and said ; ‘ Hotel, Miss ? ’ 
so gruffly and ungentlemanly that I supposed 
he really must be an agent, or whatever you 
call them, for one of these places. I said ‘ yes,’ 
absently enough, for my mind was on papa all 
the time. We gave him our satchels, and he 
walked quite a distance with us. Finally, he 
said, ‘ that’s the house you want,’ pointed to our 
hotel and coolly walked off up the road. I 
called after him to bring us our hand-bags, but 
he laughed and started to run. Then I ran 
after him and he — he pushed me down in the 
road. Oh, it was terrible, and Gladys screamed, 
and we’re here without a cent, without a change 
of clothing, even, and — and papa sick in Den- 
ver,” finished Jo; breaking freshly into tears 
and vehemently iterating that “ everything was 
horrid.” 

Herrick leaned back, nearly lost his balance, 
and laughed loud enough to disturb more than 
one pair of lovers below, putting them in a flut- 
ter lest they had been discovered. 

“ Why, I thought it must have been some- 


78 M/SS MARSTON. 

thing terrible ! That man was oniy a thief ! ” 
“ B — but it was the first live thief I ever 
had any experience with — and we were alone, 
Gladys and I,” sobbed the gray young lady. 
“ You’re horridly mean to laugh at me — I think 
it was brave. Gladys wouldn’t have run after 
him.” 

“ You were brave,” said Jack, consolingly 
“ And now let us go to Gladys.” 

In the hall they met another gray young 
lady, who, presumably, was none other than 
Gladys herself, looking for her sister. The 
dramatic display which Herrick had designated 
“ spectacular ” was again repeated, although 
with more reserve, for Gladys was older than 
Jo, and disliked a scene in public. The meet- 
ing an old friend at such a critical time, how- 
ever, was an important event, even with her. 

“ Has she told you what a goose she has 
made of herself } ” asked Gladys, 

“ I am thoroughly familiar with the circum- 
stances of your arrival,” responded Herrick, 
“ and really I can’t say that I am honestly sorry, 
Jo has gained more experience, at any rate.” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


79 

“ But do you think we’ll get our satchels 
back ? ” asked the first young lady, now some- 
what composed. 

“ It is extremely improbable — but you may. 
I will warn the officials. What did the man 
look like ? ” 

“ He had a black beard and a linen coat,” 
responded Jo, promptly. 

“ That’s very definite, certainly — I can point 
you out fifty men of the same description.” 

“ I really don’t know what he wore or how 
he looked,” faltered Gladys, “ I wasn’t thinking 
of him at all, and it was very dark. I guess 
there is little need of a search.” 

“ I’ll know him if I see him again,” decided 
Jo, “ and if I ever do come across him — ” 

“ He shall be hanged,” finished Herrick, 
promptly. 


8o 


M/SS MARSTON. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CLOUDLAND. 

The customary quartette at the table near 
the door, were considerably surprised the fol- 
lowing morning by the gorgeous entrance of 
Herrick, bearing, on either arm, a young lady 
in gray. 

He smiled broadly as he reached the table. 
“ The Misses Bronson,” he announced collect- 
ively and then, noting his mistake, “ Miss 
Gladys and Miss Josephine.” 

There was the usual intensely agonizing pro- 
nunciation and repetition of names, after which 
the little party settled down to discuss the 
breakfast. The Misses Bronson were cordially 
welcomed, were mentally pronounced “ proper ” 
by Mrs. Sowders, and became sort of instanta- 
neous favorites. They were bright, entertain- 
ing, delightfully ignorant when one attempted 
to talk seriously — more especially the tender- 


MISS MARSTON. 


8i 


hearted Jo — and were, above all, attractive, if 
not handsome. The peculiarly noticeable thing 
about the Misses Bronson was their resem- 
blance to one another in a remarkable degree, 
despite a difference of two years in age. 

The conversation ran in the usual summer 
resort order— the weather, the people and the 
dullness as compared with “ other places.” 

“ Before we go to Saguache,” said Dorris, 
finally breaking from the time-worn topics, “ we 
should certainly ascend Pike’s Peak — I believe 
it is quite the thing, now that the carriage road 
has been nearly completed, and; with the Misses 
Bronson present, we might make up a delight- 
ful party.” 

“ How nice ! ” ejaculated the Misses Bronson 
in a breath. 

“ A good plan,” decided Herrick at once. 

“ We certainly couldn’t leave Manitou with- 
I out a view from the peak,” said Mrs. Sowders 
i from one end of the table, “ and this is undoubt- 
i edly a good opportunity, now that we are all 
j together.” 

! Of course Escanes and Aumerle acquiesced 

I 6 


82 


M/SS MARSTON. 


to whatever was suggested by Miss Marston, 
and therefore the trip was decided upon for the 
day following — a ride to Cascade, from where 
the ascent must begin, to take place that even- 
ing, and an early morning start on horseback. 
So a great amount of hurrying and worrying, 
and not a little scolding, began directly after 
breakfast, and Herrick, who was appointed 
supply-man, and was expected to telegraph for 
rooms at the hotel, arrange for the horses, pur- 
chase the railway tickets, and supply the Misses 
Bronson with riding-habits — all at one time and 
i.* an exceptionally pleasant manner — began to 
wish, before the noon hour passed, that Miss 
Marston’s bright idea had remained in her 
haughty little head. 

***** 

In the gold and gray of a quiescent morning, 
just as the first freshing breeze made itself de- 
lightfully apparent to the susceptible cheek, the 
start was made. Nothing but the metallic 
clang, clang of the horses’ hoofs on the hard, 
paved roadway disturbed the holy morning- 
stillness, and even these seemed, finally, when 


M/SS MARSTON. 83 

some little distance was covered, to merge them- 
selves into the low, musical rushing of the 
glistening, foam-flecked waters of the creek. 
Straight, silent sentinels stood the pine trees, 
without so much as a needle stirring or a cone 
dropping to disturb the bird and insect life so 
soon to revive by natural instinct. 

After the hurry of mounting and starting, 
the travellers had settled in their saddles with- 
out a word, and the journey through the trees 
was silent and unbroken. The spell of the early 
morning was not to be lost by even the lightest 
of laughs from the vivacious Jo, nor by the 
slightest attempt at a joke from the jolly Her- 
rick. 

Dorris and Aumerle, who had ridden far 
ahead from the very outset, paused on reaching 
a slight eminence at the end of a green Arca- 
dian park, to wait for the coming of their com- 
panions. The world was just waking. A long 
gray cloud shot out among the greenish reflec- 
tions to the north, and slowly extended until it 
belted the sky as far as their vision extended. 
The huge form of the mountain cut out the 


84 


MISS MARSTON. 


splendor of the sunrise, but they could see the 
shadows merge from black to gray and from 
gray to blue, until the slanting beams caught 
the dainty green tips of the splendid trees and 
tinged them with pale, yellow-whitish gold. 
From crimson and gray the northern sky faded 
quickly into yellow and then dissolved itself 
into an ever-extending blue. Little striped 
squirrels ran nimbly along the rotting logs by 
the roadside, birds ventured from the ever- 
greens for the first time and transferred their 
twitterings from the boughs to bushes ; the 
stately trees condescended to mov'e with the on- 
coming breezes ; and the sound of a bell, float- 
ing far into the hills from the valley, seemed 
to announce, beyond the possibility of silent 
dispute from a few cool shadows, that the day 
was beginning. 

“I never thought it half so beautiful,” said 
Dorris, softly, “ it seems like the blooming of a 
great, gorgeous flower.” 

Then, hearing the neighs of their compan- 
ions’ horses, the two turned and were shortly 
galloping up the smooth, gently-sloping road. 


M/SS MARSTON. 85 

“ It’s just perfectly delightful ; ” remarked 
Miss Josephine, who managed to find her voice 
when it became an assured fact that the sun 
had risen, “ and I wouldn’t have missed it for 
the world. Who would suppose there was 
really anything remarkable in a sunrise — out- 
side of pictures and books } ” 

“ Pictures and books don’t tell half the story,” 
commented Escanes, who was addressed. 

“ It is certainly something worth rising so 
early for,” said Gladys to Herrick, who, of 
course, agreed with her. 

Only Mrs. Sowders, plodding anxiously along 
behind, had failed to be impressed by its 
beauty. She was heartily wishing she had 
not entered on this troublesome and unprof- 
itable expedition, and was struggling with 
thoughts of giving it up and returning, or 
“ roughing it out ” with true western grit. 

Shortly began the slow, cautious climb by 
the narrow, winding road, and then there were 
few chances for scenic admiration, excepting 
when the horses were stopped and a “ breath- 
ing spell,” so necessary in mountain climbing. 


86 


M7SS MARS TON. 


taken. It was a shifting, panoramic picture of 
valleys, glens, parks, hill, and barren mountain- 
sides. A novelty at every step went unnoticed 
by all save Dorris. Even Escanes devoted 
more attention to the safe-footing of his horse, 
for the road was new, and as yet decidedly 
rough in places. Suddenly the members of 
the party found themselves shut in between 
towering, straight walls of granite, and, looking 
up, saw the immense, commanding peak, thrust- 
ing itself into the blue vault. There was a 
moment of admiration and then the horses 
were commanded to their utmost to reach the 
coveted destination in the clouds. 

“ It seems like a journey to Heaven,” said 
Gladys once, loud enough for the entire party 
to hear, and her expression caught favor at 
once. 

“ It seems as though I am already in 
Heaven — it would be sacrilege to go much 
higher,” observed Aumerle lowly, looking to- 
ward his companion. 

“ I do not understand.” 

'* The understanding lies with yourself — it is 


M/SS MARSTON. 87 

Heaven to be with you, as nearly as I can 
realize it.” 

She colored and laughed. 

“ You are growing sentimental,” she said 
brightly, “ and your remarks have no relevance 
to the situation. We are pilgrims, treading the 
‘ steep and thorny path ’ to the summit — 
Heaven, as Miss Gladys would no doubt term 
it, and not inaptly either. Our journey to-day 
bears a marked semblance to our daily journeys 
through life ” 

“ You are growing religious — and serious,” 
he intimated, “ and in view of that it is my 
privilege to grow sentimental, more especially 
as I can show cause.” 

“ One can always show cause for growing 
either religious or serious too,” she returned 
with warmth, “ but, in view of the fact that 
neither sentimentality, religion or seriousness 
are absolutely indispensable on this occasion, 
hadn’t we better drop all three.” 

He assented, laughingly, and the conversation 
took a more trivial turn, or was stopped alto- 
gether, according to the mood. 


88 


M/SS MAA’SrOJV. 


Later, as the animals plodded patiently 
around the twisted road, the faces of the 
riders began to show an anxious expression as 
their eyes sought the west. A white, fluffy 
cloud was assuming a darkening aspect and 
spreading itself out like an immense, threaten- 
ing bird of prey, 

“ Our day will be spoiled — it’s too horridly 
horrid,” moaned Jo, who had fallen back with 
Mrs. Sowders and left both Escanes and Her- 
rick to enjoy Gladys’ company. 

“ We may reach Grand View before the 
storm overtakes us,” called out Dorris ; “ and 
I have been told the view from there is even 
better than on the apex itself.” 

With this in mind, the riders urged their 
horses even faster. 

“ I should be extremely sorry to have our 
pleasure ruined, as Miss Bronson predicts,” 
said Aumerle to his companion, 

“ It really does seem unjust, when we had 
such bright prospects at dawn,” Dorris returned. 
“ As usual, I suppose we must make the best 
of it.” 


MISS MARSTON. 


89 


A late-morning breeze had blown her bronze- 
brown hair from its coil beneath the jaunty 
cap, and it fell curlingly around her face and 
on her brown riding-habit. Sparkling with 
excitement and the impression the panoramic 
mountain scenes had inspired, her full brown 
eyes rested upon Aumerle with a sight and 
feeling that seemed born of a higher world. 
There was yet apparent, among the rude, 
granite-rock surroundings, the womanly tender- 
ness and grace, just tinged with haughtiness, 
that Aumerle had noted the first day he met 
her at Manitou. The charm in her whole 
manner, which he had been attempting to resist 
from the first, was now made doubly danger- 
ous by the new light in the soul-burning eyes, 
and the young man, he who had sworn no 
woman should fascinate, did a very indiscreet 
thing then and there. Their companions were 
far behind — he was alone with this dainty, 
beautiful creature in brown. He did not at- 
tempt an argument with himself, but rushed 
wildly, almost blindly, on. With insanely-pas- 
sionate haste he presented his claims for her 


90 


M/SS MARSTON. 


affection, finally drawing up his horse to finish 
his suit. 

“ I love you, this is what I have been trying 
to tell — will you be my wife ? ” 

She had hardly seemed to comprehend the 
meaning of his ill-chosen words until he had 
about concluded. Then she reined in her 
horse and sat quite still, with a puzzled, sorrow- 
ful downward glance at the barren hills below. 
The fleecy harbingers of the slowly moving 
black cloud in the west could not have been 
whiter than her agonized face. 

“ This ise xtremely unfortunate, ” she man- 
aged to say after a time, “ you spoke so sud- 
denly and have quite worried me. I am sure 
you did not mean what you said, Mr. Aumerle. 
We are comparative strangers, you know, and 
such a turn in the conversation as you made 
just then was exceedingly — well, was scarcely 
opportune.” 

Her voice was firm now, and the color had 
again entered her cheeks. 

“ I will attribute your remarks to temporary 
insanity,” she said brightly, looking over at. 


M/SS MARSTON-. 


91 

him, “ or to anything you may wish — only, 
please, Mr. Aumerle, don’t let such a thing 
occur again. I feel like scolding you terribly. 
And I declare, I noticed a drop of rain — I am 
afraid Miss Josephine will have sufficient cause 
to mourn.” 

She gave the gentle pony a smart lash and 
was soon some distance in advance of Aumerle. 
He did not move for a time, but finally gave a 
short, pathetic little laugh, like one who had 
been unwillingly wakened from a refreshing 
sleep, and spurred his horse into a brisk trot. 

“ I have blundered — and in heaven,” he mut- 
tered, with iust a tinge of humor. 

* * * # # 

Innumerable and successive “ horrids ” from 
Jo, and a murmur of disappointment from the 
remainder of the party, was the result of the 
stop at Grand View. A drizzling, disagreeable, 
cold rain was falling, and there was absolutely 
nothing to see. 

“ We are in a cloud,” said Escanes, gloomily, 
“ and may as well continue to the main peak. 
There is a possibility of it lifting.” 


92 


MISS MARSTON. 


At the signal station the most welcome feat- 
ure was a bright fire, and a not very extensive, 
but satisfactory luncheon. An hour’s waiting 
was not without its reward. Suddenly the 
white vapor descended — not far, but just enough 
to disclose the jutting, rugged tops of many 
mountains. Slowly the clouds receded, and 
below the little band on the rocks was a great, 
rolling, billowy ocean of white, beyond which, 
when the upper strata lifted, were the dim out- 
lines of the distant peaks. There were no pict- 
ures of the pastoral life in the lowlands, not 
even a glimpse at the twisting rivers — nothing 
but cold, grand projections of barren rocks lifted 
above the now pinkly-tinted opalescent sea. 
Gradually the great nacreous vapor crept to- 
ward them again, the mystic-picture, vision-like 
in its brevity and wondrous beauty, dissolved 
into the clouds, and the cold rain awoke them 
to their position. 

The return was tedious, the road muddy, and 
the little band wholly depressed in spirits. A 
grumble from Jo, at various stages of the de- 
scent, and an attempted gentle remonstrance 


MISS MARSTON. 


93 


from her sister, was the only form of conversa- 
tion indulged in, to which the remainder of the 
party listened with a satisfaction peculiarly 
grim. Dorris and Aumerle, who led the party 
as they had during the morning, exchanged not 
a word. Escanes and Herrick rode silently 
beside the Misses Bronson, while Mrs. Sowders 
mentally thanked Providence that she was each 
minute being brought nearer an end of her 
day’s indiscretion. 

The entrance upon the wide, level stretch of 
road leading down to Cascade, caused a notice- 
able change for the better in the dispirited 
band, and the younger Miss Bronson actually 
dashed up to the hotel with a joyous little 
laugh. 

Aumerle assisted Dorris to dismount. 

I 

“ Will you pardon me ? ” he whispered, “ I 
fear I was, as you suggested, ‘ temporarily in- 
sane.’ Can you forgive my blunder ? ” 

“ I have already pardoned you,” she returned, 
giving his brown hand a slight, reassuring press. 
“ It is now in order for us both to forget.” 


94 


MISS MARSTOM. 


PART II. 

PROBLEMATICAL INSANITY. 

CHAPTER I. 

MADEMOISELLE CLOTHILDE. 

Escanes and Herrick accompanied Major 
Suit to the Carbonate camp the day following 
the interesting journey to the peak. The Misses 
Bronson, having been summoned to Denver, 
and having departed in deep distress that very 
morning, Manitou held no decided attractions 
for the second young man referred to, while 
the first did not care particularly whether he 
remained or went away — it was necessary he 
should visit his native city before leaving the 
state, and it was just as well, he considered, to 
accompany Herrick and the Major. The trip 
was uneventful and the arrival without incident. 
The trio understood they were to meet Dorris, 
Mrs. Sowders and Aumerle in Southern Col- 


M/SS MAHSTOM 


95 


orado in two weeks, and so parted company 
temporarily ; Herrick and the Major confining 
their attention to the mines. Escanes greeted 
a few old friends warmly, and the majority, who 
considered themselves such, ironically, or even 
“ cut ” them ; did a great amount of walking, 
much sneering, made himself generally unpop- 
ular, yet was looked upon with a great deal of 
respect and interest altogether, for a “ lion ” is 
bound to attract attention wherever he may 
roam. He went wherever fancy led — and fancy 
seemed to direct his steps to many queer and 
peculiar, if not somewhat disgusting, places. 
There were long, ill-smelling rooms, westernly 
termed “ dance halls,” where gaudy denizens 
exhausted themselves dancing on the rough 
floor, under the feeble lamps, and amid smoke 
so thick it resembled a harbor in a light fog. 
There were dirty little saloons with their polit- 
ical loungers ; there were musty variety theatres. 
Into one of these places Escanes stumbled a few 
nights after his arrival. From narrow “ private ” 
boxes, arranged in a semi-circular row, came 
sounds of affected, jarring revelry. Around 


96 


M/SS MARSTON, 


the small unsteady tables in the pit sat brown- 
faced miners who eagerly watched, and vehe- 
mently applauded the various “ specialties.” It 
was a strange place, with its cosmopolitan crowd, 
but an admirable, if possibly unprepossessing, 
spot for the easel of the artist who desired to 
paint character-study in the lower walks — and 
Escanes, unquestionably a pen-painter in this 
respect, knew its value of old. Where the fol- 
lowers of high society would have been dis- 
gusted, the novelist found a mine — what the 
artificial author would have pronounced useless, 
Escanes denominated “ valuable.” 

Taking a crumpled play-bill from the floor, 
Penn noted that the attraction of the week was 
“ M’lle Clothilde, soprano magnifique'.' Ma- 
demoiselle, as became a star of brilliancy, occu- 
pied a place of honor last upon the programme. 
With a wandering curiosity as to who she might 
be, Escanes attempted to individualize her from 
the gaudy, gaily-decked creatures in the boxes, 
and finally decided upon a corpulent little 
Frenchwoman, who was vehemently conversing 
with an extremely tall individual in brown cor- 


M/SS MARS TON. 


97 


duroys. Having settled this point to his evi- 
dent satisfaction, the new-comer turned to glance 
at some of the habitues of the hall. He had 
taken a seat beside one of the tables in the rear. 
Directly opposite him was a young man — ex- 
tremely young, with a boyish face — who seemed 
wholly out of his element amid the surround- 
ings. Escanes scanned him keenly for a mo- 
ment, and then the puzzled look leaving his 
face, reached over and tapped the youth on the 
shoulder. 

“ How are you Francois ” he asked, extend- 
ing his hand. 

Somewhat startled, the boy drew back. 

“ Et es not my plaisure to know of you, saire,” 
he began in broken English. 

“ No ? As I thought,” remarked Escanes, 
with a sigh. “ It’s the same the world over. 
When I gave you the purse at Toulon last fall 
you swore you owed me an undying gratitude. 
I’m afraid your memory ended when the bottom 
of the purse was reached, my dear young 
Frenchman.” 

“ Ah, et es Monsieur the Americain ! ” cried 
7 


98 


M/SS MARSrON-. 


the boy delightedly, rising and fervently grasp- 
ing Escanes’ outstretched hand. “ But you have 
so changed, so ” 

“ What, in a few months, Francois ? ” asked 
Escanes laughing. 

“ Not in the face. Monsieur — not in the face. 
Et es, rather, what you call the garb, I believe. 
Your pardon I beseech, for my seeming rude- 
ness.” 

“ I accept your explanation,” said his com- 
panion. “ And will you kindly abstain from 
such demonstrativeness ? You have lamed my 
wrist.” 

With a flow of “ pardon. Monsieur,” Francois 
seated himself again, regarding Escanes with 
bright, expectant eyes — the sudden meeting with 
one he could not but consider an old friend, quite 
overwhelming him. The scene at the galleys 
that warm autumn afternoon came vividly back 
to him — how ill, feeble, and almost dead, he 
was ; the visit of the American, the novelist’s 
interest in him; the stealthy dropping of the 
well-filled porte-monnaie, with the caution “ use 
it well, if these dogs of guards will let you ” — 


MISS MARSTOM. 


99 


he remembered every detail, every word used. 

“ How do you come here ? ” questioned 
Escanes suddenly. “ What of the galleys ? ” 
Francois turned pale. “ I escaped,” he said 
briefly, turning startled, questioning eyes to his 
companion’s face. 

“ Well, I’m not distressed,” muttered Es- 
canes. “ Those people were worse than brutes. 
Don’t be afraid — your secret is safe with me.” 

“ Monsieur is so kind,” murmured Francois, 
passionately covering Escanes’ hands with 
kisses. 

“ Don’t mention it — and please^ young man 
do not be so demonstrative,” replied Penn, with- 
drawing his hand. “ Such actions are looked 
upon with extreme disfavor in America. They 
will call you a ‘ crank,’ if you persist in them. I 
hope you used the money to your advantage t ” 
“ Without it I should have perished.” 

“ Then I have been of some use in the 
world — at least through my ill-gotten gains,” 
Escanes, muttered, half-sarcastically, congratu- 
lating himself. “ Tell me why you are here ? ” 
Francois’ dark face grew even darker. 


lOO 


M/SS MAKS TON. 


“ Et es of my private affairs,” he growled 
lowly. 

“ Very well, then,” was the light reply, “ I’m 
not troubling myself to any extent, and if you 
don’t choose to gratify my curiosity — why, you 
needn’t. I only hope you’re not plotting mis- 
chief. I rather admired you when I met you 
in France, and never could reconcile myself to 
the belief that you committed the crime with 
which you were charged — but then, you young 
French terrors are up to anything.” 

The boy had started to his feet. 

“ I have committed no crime ! ” he cried 
angrily. “ Et was her — that woman, the 
woman I will follow to the end of the world 
until I get justice. She is here to-night ; I have 
seen her ! I am here, and 1 am prepared ! ” 

He had thrust his right hand into the pocket 
of his faded coat. For an instant there was a 
silvery- reflecting flash under the electric light. 
Escanes walked around the table and, seizing 
the panting boy by the shoulders, forced him 
into a chair. 

“ You are making an extraordinarily stupen- 


MISS MARSTON. lor 

dous fool of yourself,” he said calmly, “ and are 
drawing attention. Give me that pistol quickly, 
there comes one of your worst enemies.” 

Attracted by the angry, but indistinguishable 
tones of Francois, a policeman had approached 
the two young men to inquire the cause of the 
seeming disturbance. 

“ It’s all right. Jack,” explained Escanes 
lightly, “ my friend is a little under the 
weather — that’s all,” and, apparently satisfied, 
the man with the blue coat walked away. 

“ Never do that again,” savagely warned the 
novelist. “ You persist in making the queerest 
breaks — what’s the matter with you ” 

“ Ah, Monsieur, you do not know — pray 
pardon me — pardon again,” said the boy sadly. 

“ As many times as you wish, but for 
Heaven’s sake keep within bounds.” 

Just then a small, gorgeously-dressed person- 
age, with an offensive diamond and hugely, 
checked, expansive vest, came forward on the 
stage and announced, with rather an embar- 
rassed air, that M’lle Clothilde would next 
appear. Madam was superb, was engaged for 


102 


MJSS MARSTON, 


one week at an “ enormous salary/’ would sing 
the latest operatic craze, and the diminu- 
tive manager expressed a heart-felt wish that 
his patrons would appreciate his enterprise. 
Whereupon there was a great amount of hoot- 
ing a little applause, and a profound retiring 
bow the part of the man with the loud suit. At 
this point of proceedings, Francois was nervously 
endeavoring to restrain his passions. “Ef I was 
right,” he muttered, “ et will be her,” and just 
at this point Escanes thought it advisable to 
hold the youth in his chair. He stood at the 
boy’s back, pressing his hands firmly on the 
shoulders. 

“ Don’t stir, or I’ll give you over to the 
police the first thing,” he cautioned, with more 
severity in his tone than he thought he could 
summon. 

Escanes was fully guarded for any move of 
Francois, but was totally unprepared for the 
sensation M’lle Clothilde was destined to pro- 
duce on him. 

The insignificant orchestra played discord- 
antly and low. A form, exquisitely attired in 


Af/SS MARS TO AT. 


103 

the pinkest of pink silks, glided from one of the 
entrances. There was a prolonged, loud clap- 
ping of hands and stamping of feet, and a superb 
soprano voice floated over the murky auditorium. 

Escanes, who was engaged with the passion- 
ate young Frenchman when Clothilde entered, 
glanced quickly up in incredulous surprise. 
There was an intense, penetrating, puzzled 
look in his eyes at first, hard to understand. 
He was evidently mentally comparing the 
vision in pink with some one he knew, and 
gradually a depressing, settled conviction came 
over him, causing a horrible, low, strained cry 
to issue from his parted lips. Francois was 
forgotten ; there was but one thing uppermost 
in his whirling brain — the woman in pink. In 
the midst of her song, M’lle Clothilde saw the 
two figures in the rear of the theatre. On its 
sweetest passage her exquisite voice faltered 
and sank to a note of intense terror. She sud- 
denly turned and groped blindly for the wings, 
falling just as she reached them. 

Escanes was awakened from his horrible 
stupor by the frenzied clutches of Francois, who, 


104 


M/SS MAKS TON. 


shaking with rage was searching the novelist’s 
pockets for the weapon he had removed from 
the overcoat. 

“ Give it me — she shall not escape this time. 
My God, give it me or drive me mad ! ” 

“ Hush,” admonished Escanes grimly, hold- 
ing the boy’s wrists like iron, “you must be 
quiet. Let us go.” 

And he pushed him unwillingly toward the 
door, leaving the audience in a state of wild 
confusion. 

They paced the moonlit streets for hours — 
wandering aimlessly here and there. Finally, 
they found themselves in the centre of a broad 
road on a hill-top. They could note its white 
line to the west reaching up into the distant 
mountains, where it became lost in the trees. 
Below were the unsteady lights of the city, 
paling before the full moon. A white meteor 
went whirling from the heavens and was lost 
behind the southern hills. 

“You know this woman, then — this female 
Janus ? ” demanded Escanes fiercely, breaking 
the silence which had existed between them. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


105 

“ Know her ! She is the woman who sent 
me to the galleys. She has of my existence 
made a torture. I meant to kill her to-night. 
I did not hesitate — you interfered,” came sul- 
lenly from the boy, looking scowlingly down at 
the lights. 

“ Yes, but her name } ” 

“ Ah, monsieur, that I do not know. Curse 
me for ignorance, I never learned it ! I/e called 
her ‘Do.’ ” 

“ Dorris ? ” almost screamed the excited man. 
“ There must be some terrible, some awful mis- 
take.” 

He laughed incoherently and staggered in 
the road. Francois, alarmed, supported him. 

“ It must have been fancy,” he muttered, walk- 
ing unconsciously where the boy led. “ I am so 
weak to be upset by a trifle. But the likeness 
was so strong — so very strong.” 

“ You know her too, monsieur .? ” 

“ I — I thought at first I did. There was 
something so remarkable in her resemblance to 
one with whom I am acquainted. But I must 
have been wrong ; I must have been wrong. ” 


io6 


MISS MAKSTOM, 


They paused for a while to look down on the 
broad, sleeping city, and partially heard, in their 
confused, feverish brains, the subdued whirr of 
the machinery in the great Carbonate mines on 
the hills opposite them. Then, in the misty 
morning light, they walked unsteadily down 
the white boulevard and into the suburban 


streets. 


mss M^i-sroAT. 


107 


CHAPTER II. 

TWO ON A TO WE R. 

Late that day Escanes awoke, dulled, and 
with a feeling of general depression. In a 
vague way he attempted to review the events 
of the night, but they came only dimly back 
to him in a half-consequential form. 

“ What a peculiar thing it was,” he said, half 
aloud, “ even remarkable. But what a glorious 
idiot I must have made of myself while laboring 
under the absurd hallucination that it was Dor- 
ris. It is inconceivable ! By the Bard, though, 
the French youngster won’t let the thing rest. 
I wouldn’t be in that woman’s dainty shoes 
for a large amount.” 

He was even cheerful when he went down to 
dinner, although he could probably not have ex- 
plained just why he should be. It was a great 


io8 


M/SS MARSTON. 


relief to consider how thoroughly impossible 
it was that the woman in pink should be Dorris 
Alarston, and the more he considere-d it, the 
more decided did he become that it wasn’t. 

He even found himself wondering how he 
should have been so thrown out over it, and 
mentally denominated himself a “ blundering 
ass” as he broke open his letters. One was 
from Jack, and was reserved until the last. 
When he took it up he was considerably sur- 
prised to note it was dated in Denver. 

“ I came here last evening,” the letter ran, 
“and will probably stay until you are ready to 
go south. The most peculiar thing occurred 
at Manitou two days after you left. Going 
down to breakfast one morning I found a neat 
note awaiting me in the office. It was from 
Miss Marston. ‘ We have been called away 
suddenly,’ it read ; ‘ but will be in Potter’s 
Gulch in two weeks, as we could not, of course, 
miss a visit to the Great Horn Spoon before 
leaving Colorado. We tried to see you last 
evening, after getting the telegram, but found 
you had retired.” 


MISS MARSTOM. 


109 


“ What do you think of that — not a word, not 
a hint as to where they went ? Precious little 
information could I obtain from the hotel clerk. 
He knew they left that morning, believing, he 
said, for the south. The ticket-agents hadn’t 
the remotest idea of selling tickets to the ladies 
I described. At the telegraph office, for a 
liberal inducement, and on the strictly ‘ q. t.,’ as 
I have heard you corruptly express it, I suc- 
ceeded in learning from an addle-headed clerk 
that the telegram referred to came from Lead- 
ville — that’s what he said, and what he would 
have sworn to, had not the superintendent 
entered just then and thrust him into unmen- 
tionable obscurity with a fiercer look than you 
wear, even in your darkest mood. Of course 
the man was lying, as I should have known, 
but he held my inducement firmly in his pocket, 
nevertheless. There wasn’t much to be learned 
from the superintendent — ‘ it wasn’t his bus- 
iness to give information as to where telegrams 
were received from.’ He hinted strongly how- 
ever, \.'ien I had bulldozed him into a milder 
mood, that he believed it was dated Denver. 


no 


M/SS MAKSTON. 


Knowing that neither of the ladies had the least 
reason in the world to go to the Carbonate 
camp, but that they might have every reason 
to go to Denver, I came directly to this point. 
Not to ‘ follow them up,’ exactly, my dear boy, 
but because Manitou is becoming inexpressibly 
dull. I am confident, however, that Miss Mar- 
ston’s neglect to state where she was going was 
due to her haste, and that both of the ladies 
would have been only too glad to have had me 
accompany them, were they given sufficient time 
to explain. One thing is certain, they are not 
in this city — or if they are, I have failed to 
discover them. Of course they are not wdth 
you — or are they and you trying to joke with 
me .? I’ve half a mind to run up there and see 
for myself.” 

The effect of Aumerle’s letter was anything 
but pleasing. Escanes’ mind immediately re- 
solved itself into a bewildered state greatly 
similar to what it was during the early morning. 
An endeavor to reason with himself proved 
wholly fruitless. Scarcely tasting his meal, he 
rushed out into the afternoon air. There was 


M/SS MAHSTOX. 


1 1 1 


one determination uppermost — he would solve 
this mysterious, puzzling riddle. He went 
directly to the dirty theatre where the peculiar 
sensation of the night had occurred. 

“ Mademoiselle left this morning,” said the 
loud little manager, somewhat sadly. “ She 
was taken violently ill last night while on the 
stage, and this morning cancelled her engage- 
ment and boarded the train.” 

“ Where did she go ? ” 

“ How should I know ? Somewhere south, I 
believe, although I am not sure.” 

He cursed very strongly, and denounced the 
fair artiste soundly, but Escanes did not stop to 
listen to him. He was out in the street again, 
with the hot, dry wind blowing his tumbled 
locks over his forehead, and more bewildered 
than ever. He walked a great deal and 
became calmer — then returned to the hotel. 
He found Francois awaiting him. 

“ I have seen her,” cried the boy fiercely — 
“ she has gone.” 

“ I know as much,” returned Escanes. 

“ She left this morning,” he went on rapidly 


1 12 


M/SS MAA^STOJV, 


and discordantly, “ but I was too far away to 
kill her .... I was prepared again .... I am 
always prepared .... Some day we shall 
meet .... Meet alone .... I have no respect 
for this woman .... 1 shall kill her on sight 
. ... If I am near enough .... She es beau- 
tiful .... I care not for beauty now . . . . Et es 
a stranger to me .... I — I believe I shall slowly 
choke her .... choking is so horrible ....’’ 

Escanes stopped the wild, disconnected sen- 
tences, and drew the boy into an unoccupied 
writing-room. 

“ You are clearly insane on one subject, my 
young friend.” He had tried to talk calmly, 
but decidedly had failed. His voice sounded 
so very harsh, so very like one that did not 
belong to him. 

“ Was she alone ? ” he asked absently. Some- 
how he was losing interest. What if it was 
Dorris ? It didn't make any particular differ- 
ence. Many people had double lives — why not 
she } Then he looked hard at a spot on the 
carpet — a bright red spot, caused by the over- 
turning of ink. He realized, vaguely, that the 


MISS MARS TON. 


I13 

stain should have been removed — somehow it 
seemed to be the only important thing to be 
done just then. He stared at it for a long 
time. Finally he wandered back to Dorris. 
She had seemed so gentle, so womanly, when 
they met in Manitou. What reason had she 
for playing this revolting role? To be sure he 
had no interest in the matter — no direct 
1 interest. But one could scarcely help admir- 
: ing Dorris, and it was — was — all — so — strange. 
I The thoughts seemed to pain as they slipped 
i into his confused brain. He was dimly con- 
I scious that he had asked a question, and that 
j his companion had answered it. 

“ What did you say ? ” he questioned. 

; “ That she had an elderly companion — a lady. 

I One I did not meet in France.” 

I “ Mrs. Sowders, probably,” murmured Escanes. 
; The intelligence did not surprise him — there 
j was nothing to be surprised at now, nothing in 
1 the world. Ev'ery one was wicked, and deceit- 
1 ful and double-hearted— Dorris and every one. 
He tried to think of some one who was not, and 
his thoughts could only centre on Jack. Yes, 


1 14 MISS MARSTON. 

Jack was honest — Jack must be honest : he 
had known him all his life. But Dorris, 
beautiful Dorris, what of her ? Then he began 
wondering if Jack loved Dorris, and then he 
looked at the red spot on the carpet for a long, 
long time. 

He was somewhat composed when he looked 
up. 

“ I think I am going mad,” he said to Fran- 
cois with forced calmness. “ I believe I am 
going quite mad. This — this woman you hate 
— this murderess of whom you have told me, 
this woman who drove you to the galleys, is 
driving me insane. I was wrong this morning 
when I — when I lied to you. I do know her.” 

Francois seemed to i\ote nothing peculiar in 
Escanes. He had sat with his face buried in 
his hands and had paid little attention to the 
man’s rambling talk. He was mad himself — of 
that he was convinced. 

“ I am going to my room now,” said Escanes, 
walking around to the boy’s side. I shall 
leave orders not to be disturbed. Here is one 
of my keys — I want you to wake me at ii 


M/SS MARSTON. 


115 


o’clock to-morrow. Do you understand — at 1 1 
o’clock ” 

The boy nodded and watched the man’s slim 
figure until it had turned the winding staircase. 

“ He es mad — like me,” he soliloquized. 
“ He es fully as mad.” 


ii6 


M/SS MARSTON. 


CHAPTER III. 

BEGINNING TO PLOT. 

Herrick came down from the mines early the 
next day. He spent ten minutes trying to arouse 
Escanes, and was finally obliged to invoke the 
assistance of a bell-boy. Between them they 
managed to elicit a sleepy “ well } ” just as 
Herrick was getting a little frightened. 

“ You certainly sleep soundly enough,” re- 
marked the young man, when Escanes had 
finally wakened enough to stumble over to the 
door and open it. 

“You had a key,” he muttered, staggering 
toward the bed, “ there was no necessity for 
making a scene.” 

“ I had a key ? Guess you’re mistaken 
aren’t you } ” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


117 


Escanes noted who it was. 

“ Oh, it’s you, Herrick.” 

“ Resembles me slightly, I think,” he replied, 
throwing up the blind, and letting a flood of 
sunshine into the darkened room. Then he 
turned toward the bed. “ For Heaven’s sake, 
Penn, what’s wrong .f* Have you commenced 
keeping late hours again, or are you ill t ” 

“ Both,” returned the man in bed, turning 
his dull eyes toward the visitor. His face was 
intensely white, and contracted by hard, firm 
lines. He seemed to have suddenly aged. “ I 
have had an unenviable experience, Herrick, 
and have been a little nervous, that’s all. 
No doubt I will be myself before long.” 

He said the words coldly and with no 
show of expression. 

“ Here is a note some one left with the 
clerk for you. I thought I’d bring it up.” 

Herrick was rather surprised at the un- 
accountable change in his friend, and noted 
how unsteady his hand were as he tore open 
the note. A small key fell from the letter. 


MISS MARS TON, 


ii8 

‘‘ Monsieur — Vour pardon for the step lam taking. I 
am resolved to find this woman who has wronged me. 
I will search to the end of the world. 

‘‘ Francois.” 

Escanes tore the letter into small, shapeless 
pieces with his nervous fingers, and flung them 
on the coverlet. 

“ He is a fool,” muttered the novelist, rising 
to dress. 

Herrick went to the window and stood look- 
ing down into the busy street. 

“ I suppose you met Miss Marston 1 ” he 
questioned idly. He merely asked it as a 
matter of form and hardly expected an 
answer. There could be no doubt of Escanes 
having seen her, he considered. 

“ Miss Marston.? ” Somehow the name jarred 
on the man by the wash-stand. It had caused 
him so much trouble of late. But he managed 
to repeat it interrogatively. 

“ Yes — is it possible you didn’t meet her? ” 
was the surprised reply. “ She stopped at this 
hotel, Mrs. Sowders with her. They were 
up at the mine yesterday. Uncle told them 


M/SS MARS TON. 


I19 

you were here, too, and they said or I think 
they said, they met you.” He would have 
added something about jesting, but saw, by his 
companion’s manner, that there was no sugges- 
tion of a joke. 

“ At this hotel t ” repeated Escanes, hoarsely. 
“You say they were here 'i ” 

“ Certainly — their names are registered ; what 
• in thunder is the matter with you anyhow, 
Penn ? I suppose it was mere chance that kept 
you apart, although it is decidedly queer, both 
living in the same building. ” 

Escanes threw down the towel with an ex- 
clamation of disgust. “ There is nothing the 
matter with me, Herrick,” he said firmly. I 
have been outrageously treated, have been a 
confounded fool, and — and — well, I’ve had 
troubled dreams.” 

“ I am inclined to think you have,” observed 
the young gentleman. 

There was no mistaking Herrick’s assertion. 

“ Miss Marston, Mrs. Sowders, Providence, 
R. I.” were as legible on the hotel register as 
Dorris’s dainty hand could make them. The 


120 


M/SS MARSTON. 


names had been placed there Tuesday. It was 
now Thursday. 

Escanes felt decidedly sheepish when he saw 
them, and reflected that he had neglected to 
search for Miss Marston where it was more 
than probable he would find her — in the hotel. 

Then he became angry at her. There was 
no disguising her deceit. She had even lied 
to Major Suit and Herrick when she said she 
met him. Then, gradually, his incomprehensible 
bewilderment changed to a feeling of the utmost 
contempt for this fair young woman. He 
could even hate her, and became quite cheerful 
in the reflection. He mapped out a course 
to pursue, — very romantic, very sensational, and 
quite in keeping with the heavy man of a 
novel. He would follow Miss Marston where- 
ever she went, and turn up abruptly just at 
the wrong time. He would, unsuspected, do 
several things of an exciting and highly inter- 
esting nature. 

“ Do Dorris and Mrs. Sowders still think of 
going to Potter’s Gulch ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; they’re quite enthusiastic over it. 


M/SS MA US TO AT. 


I2I 


That’s why I came down from the mine, 
to-day,” replied Herrick, across the dinner- 
table. “ Uncle intends starting for the south 
to-morrow night, and wants you to be ready to 
go with him. He has written to Denver, and 
the ladies intend meeting Jack there and going 
straight down with him on Monday.” 

“ And you 1 ” 

“ Oh, I shall not go until the end of next 
week,” answered Herrick, turning very red. 
“You see Uncle wants a sort of — well, a 
sort of summer party. He has fixed his new 
house all over, you know, and — and he said I 
might invite the Misses Bronson, if I thought 
proper — and provided their father improved. 
I guess he is improving, for Gladys — the elder 
Miss Bronson — wrote me yesterday she thought 
Jo and herself would join the party. Uncle 
said it would be so much more interesting 
to have a large number spend the summer 
in the Gulch.” 

“ No doubt,” returned Escanes, dryly, pri- 
vately determining to make rn^tters interesting 
for one of the party at least. 


123 


M/SS MAliSTON. 


CHAPTER IV. 

PLANS OF CAMPAIGN. 

Penn and the Major left for the south by a 
torturously slow train — one that wound in and 
out of the canyons and along the mountain sides 
at a snail-like pace, and seemed to have no par- 
ticular destination and no particular time in 
which to reach it. It was a mountain “ ac- 
commodation,” and passengers were supposed 
to make the “ best of it ” en tour. The Major 
did not prove very congenial company. There 
were but six passengers in the narrow car, and 
of these, five, including Major Suit, performed 
that distinctly American feat of “ burying 
themselves in their newspapers ” directly the 
train started. The sixth was the ever-restive 
Penn, who wandered back and forth in the 
aisle, attempted once or twice to make a com- 


M/SS MARSTON. 


123 


fortable bed on the hard seats, failed, and 
finally went out on the rear platform and seated 
himself on a low step. At the bottom of the 
grade the river crept sluggishly along, eddying 
around the huge boulders, and sparkling cool 
and green where its progress was unimpeded 
by the ungainly rocks. On the mountain 
grades the progress was so slow the travellers 
might have walked. Suddenly there was a 
grating, irritating noise, extending in one long 
sweep from the engine to the rear of the line. 
The train rocked, Escanes was precipitated to 
the ground, and the row of cars came to a 
standstill. In a little pile, in the very centre 
of the track, lay a number of wooden steps. 

“ I guess you’re not hurt,” remarked the 
brakeman with a grin, as he removed the pile 
of steps in a very business-like manner, threw 
them on the platform, and motioned the engi- 
neer to move on. 

“ N — no, I suppose not,” returned the man 
addressed. “ Not if you say I’m not.” 

“ Never had an accident on this road yet,” 
said the brakeman threateningly. 


124 


M7SS MARSTON. 


No ? I imagine that was merely a matter 
of form, then ? Some one receives instructions 
to push a boulder down on the track every 
time a train passes, I suppose, — or are the boul- 
ders advised as to the proper time and paid for 
their services accordingly ? ” 

“No ’casion fer you to complain,” grumbled 
the brakeman, “ you didn’t get hurt.” 

“You have told me that, and I am under 
obligations for the information,” sarcastically ; 
“ but I believe, however, I am the best judge in 
the matter. My right wrist has been sprained.” 

The brakeman brought a chair to the plat- 
form for the passenger, and busied himself bind- 
ing the wrist. There was a slight cut, beside 
the sprain, which bled profusely. 

“No rock ever hit th’ engine on this road 
yit,” observed the brakeman, bound to exon- 
erate something or somebody. 

“ Extremely fortunate. I’m sure. I suppose 
it costs the ‘ road ’ as you put it, a great deal for 
steps, however ? ” 

“ Well, yes — we do sometimes get knocked 
out on them things. Nobody was ever killed 


M/SS MAKS TON. 


125 

though, and they fix it all right in the back 
shops.” 

Tying the bandage tightly, the manipulator 
of brakes went whistling into the car, with the 
joyous consolation that he had done his duty, 
and that the stranger couldn’t possibly sue that 
great corporation known collectively as “ the 
road.” 

The injured American has not the privilege 
of his English cousin — especially the western 
American. He has no right, under any cir- 
cumstances, according to the prevailing, if not 
popular custom, to remonstrate, to any forcible 
degree, against the treatment he receives on a 
railway train. He may grumble to himself, and 
insist on the gentleman in front lowering the 
window. He may throw out sundry hints at 
the management and announce his preference 
for the other system. He may go so far, but in- 
stantly realizes that there it must end. Every 
American, when he boards a railway train, be- 
lieves that the “ road ” has his life at its mercy, 
and only suggests the advisability of having the 
remains shipped to the nearest point conducive 


126 


M/SS MARSTON. 


to decent interment. After the irritation con- 
sequent upon the first shock, Escanes dismissed 
the matter from his mind — the only thing to 
be considered was his safe arrival at whatever 
place the train chose to stop. 

Naturally his thoughts turned on Dorris — 
the main trouble seemed to be in keeping them 
from turning on her. The whole thing seemed 
so incomprehensible, so unheard of, so wholly 
unusual. His first shock having worn away, 
after its attendant miseries, almost culminatins: 
in insanity so sudden and peculiar was it, his 
attention now diverted to things consequent. 
The outcome was to be a matter of considera- 
tion which, to fathom, seemed wholly unreason- 
able and improbable. He had better let things 
take their course, he considered, rather than 
make an artificial blunder. Map and measure 
as he would, he could not, somehow, force him- 
self to dwell upon the downfall of that peculiar 
woman, Dorris Marston. After a time he began 
wondering how she would receive him when 
first they met — what plausible story she would 
invent to blind the others and, perhaps, attempt 


M/SS MARSTO^r. 


127 


to blind him. He began asking himself if he 
loved her and thought, once, that he did. Then 
he laughed harshly, and said it was wholly out 
of the question. Yet he didn’t desire to be 
cruel with her — she might be bad, even black- 
hearted, a skilled adventuress, though so young 
in years, but there was no necessity for making 
sensational scenes. He might go quietly to 
her while she was alone and tell her it was best 
for her to leave. Then he began thinking of 
Francois’ horrible story in France, and found 
himself doubting the sensational words. Where 
was that brother the boy had spoken of.^ Why 
should the murder have been committed.? Was 
there a murder ? If so, was she really impli- 
cated .? Had she not attempted to shield her 
brother by accusing Francois — was not that 
the only way out .? Yet why should she have 
adopted a nom de plume, and appeared as a 
mere ballad singer in a disreputable theatre of 
the lower class ? The riddle was so complicated 
— so unsatisfactory. It was merely a series of 
questions presenting themselves with rapid 
order, each one more puzzling than the first 


128 


M/SS MAJfSTOM 


and* each a strong argument for itself. At- 
tempt to balance the bad with the good as he 
might, the revolting seemed to quickly over- 
throw the better part, without more than the 
mere repetition of a question. One thing he 
decided upon — he would not be hasty. Black 
as the matter was, he must have grounds more 
relative. Then his thoughts went back to the 
Manitou meeting. Then he slowly reviewed 
the whole thing with a wonderful clearness and 
calmness. And then, the train having crept 
cautiously over a high bridge and started in a 
winding course around another mountain, his 
thoughts were diverted by the familiar grating 
sound, and the right side of the cars were re- 
lieved of their steps. 

“ I guess you’d better go in,” suggested the 
brakeman as he threw the wood on the car and 
kicked the boulder into the river, “ they gener- 
ally strike the rear platform the third time.” 

And Penn decided it a wise thing to act on 
the suggestion. 


M/SS MARSTO^r, 


129 


PART III. 

GROUNDS MORE RELATIVE. 

CHAPTER I. 
potter’s gulch. 

Potter’s Gulch bore a remarkable similarity 
too ther gulches. It was long, hedged in by enor- 
mous mountains whose sides sloped abruptly; 
began at the foot-hills with a wide and commend- 
able intention, but gradually went back on good 
resolutions and culminated in a narrow, unat- 
tractive ravine, seven miles from the starting 
point. A creek traced its way the entire length 
over a pebbly, sandy bed. The head of Potter’s 
gulch was twenty miles from the End of the 
World. The End of the World was an insignifi- 
cant village in one of southern Colorado’s many 
dry, extensive parks, and was chiefly known to 
fame as the terminus of the narrow little railroad. 
The method of transit to Gibson, from the End of 
the World, was by stage — a dirty stage, covered 
with white dust and drawn by four dispirited 
9 


130 M/SS MARSTO^r. 

horses. Gibson, an ambitious mining camp, witli 
no possible reason for being ambitious, could be 
found just one mile from the entrance to Potter’s 
Gulch, and consisted of thirty-three wooden 
houses, ranging from ground-floor affairs in the 
lower quarter, to barn-like, ghostly-looking stores 
on the high street. 

Gibson himself was a “prospector,” who stum- 
bled into Potter’s Gulch even before it was Pot- 
ter’s Gulch. Nobody knew exactly who Potter 
was, but some alleged he had been a no 
less illustrious person than Gibson’s partner. 
Some one said, also, that the Indians scalped 
Potter, but that Gibson escaped and came down 
into a gulch after three days’ aimless wandering 
over the flat-tops. Surface indications tended 
to show there was mineral somewhere on one of 
the sloping mountain-sides and Gibson “ staked 
out ” a “ claim,” writing on a large piece of 
poplar ; “ Gibson’s property in Potter’s Gulch,” 
and burning it into the wood. Gibson presum- 
ably left the country after completing his first 
year’s assessment. He never returned — at least 
he never recorded his return, if he did. When a 


MISS MAKS TON. 


131 

little band of adventurers struck “ pay ore ” in the 
place, years after the burned signboard was dis- 
covered they created a small boom in their way, 
and the camp of Gibson sprung up like a mush- 
room, For a year matters were rather lively and 
then gradually settled. Everything was a ven- 
ture, so far as mining pretensions went, and many 
of the first families left for other alluring min- 
ing-camps and their transparent inducements. 
So Gibson was left by the world to slowly and 
naturally die, and became a poky, settled little 
place, with only its reminiscences to command 
occasional attention. Once in a while a stran- 
ger would study the historic burnt-board, and 
agitate the questions : “ Who was Gibson, and 
what did Potter have to do with Gibson 1 ” but 
never received much satisfaction. Some one 
would tell him, in a scattered, circumstantial way, 
a story of a flat-top massacre, but could never 
explain just how it occurred or where it was. It 
was understood that a literary lady who was 
forced, through circumstances of a pecuniary 
nature, to remain in Gibson the whole of one sum- 
mer, had written an essay on the “ Probabilities 


132 


M/SS MARS TON. 


and Improbabilities of an Impossibility,” which 
related directly to Gibson himself, and was the 
outcome of a study of the board, but it never 
appeared. 

Major Suit had interested Aumerle fils in 
Potter’s Gulch during the boom. The Great 
Horn Spoon, located four miles above Gibson, 
was the result, and the Gibson patriarchs looked 
upon the venture with extreme disfavor. 'I'he 
Major, assisted financially, was grossly indis- 
criminative. He did an unheard-of thing in 
having erected near the mine a commodious 
dwelling-house, fitted with all the modern im- 
provements procurable in that obscure portion of 
western remoteness. It had gables, and a look- 
out, and was painted a gorgeous combination of 
buff and blue. A pioneer Gibsonite who walked 
into the parlor one day, was horrified to note 
that the room was papered, carpeted and fur- 
nished with plush easy-chairs. More than this, 
he caught a glimpse of a rosewood piano in a 
spacious room beyond, and could not fail to see 
that the door panels and base-boards had been 
grained. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


133 


“ I propose to live in comfort,” explained Major 
Suit to Aumerle fils, “ your money did this, but 
I’m going to make it even when the Spoon pans 
out. Any time you want a nice little family 
party here in the summer, there’s plenty of room 
for 'em, and I’m sure they’re welcome.” 

Aumerle fils relied on the Major. He had 
much to do with the success of the Hindoo and 
Consolidated deal, and must not be forgotten at 
any cost. Privately, however, he was consider- 
ably shaken in this last venture and its modern 
dwelling accompaniment. 

But Potter House, as the Major loyally, yet 
unreasonably, called it, was a delightfully roomy 
one. When he spoke of it to his Denver and 
Carbonate Camp friends he found himself at 
some trouble in explaining it was not a hotel. 
He was frequently forced to diagram the apart- 
ments, and then announce that he “ had im- 
ported an English custom in naming it.” 

Penn was charmed with the place, and told 
the Major so. 

“ You’ve got sense,” beamed that individual, 
“ No use ’n roughin’, even in this gulch.” 


134 


M/SS MARS TON. 


What a glorious summer we could spend,” 
mused the novelist, “ if — ” and there he ended. 

The day before the ladies arrived the Major 
came enthusiastically to Escanes : “ I believe 
we’ve got it in the second drift of the fourth 
level,” he announced with fervor. “ I’m goin’ 
to increase the force by two men and telegraph 
for ’em at once ! ” 

“ How many men have you now } ” 

“ Eleven •* that’ll make our force ” 

“ Thirteen ~ are you superstitious ? ” 

“ No ! ” thundered the little man. “ I’m goin’ 
to make a great mine out of the Spoon ; supersti- 
tion and expense are no object.” 

Toward dusk he came to Penn again. 

“ There’s no doubt of it,” he said, “ the min- 
eral’s there ! Say, Escanes, you don’t suppose 
Aumerle would object if I made it an even four- 
teen, do ye ? The men at the mine say thirteen 
ain’t a good number to have round.” 

“ I don’t think Aumerle will object to any- 
thing so long as he can pay for it — make it a 
great mine; it won’t cost jfou anything.” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


135 


CHAPTER IL 

OVER THE COFFEE CUPS. 

California Dave washed the stage coach ! 

When he drove through Gibson, late in the 
afternoon, with the great lumbering vehicle 
shining red in the golden sun, just as it did in 
the early days, there was a general rush for 
windows and a general exclamation of surprise. 
But the cleanly coach, with its silver and red 
glory, attracted attention for only a moment. 
There was a young lady in a brown travelling 
cloak — a bright-faced young lady, who was 
interested in everything and asked innu- 
merable questions — sitting on the high box- 
seat. Within, another young lady sat on the 
front seat, hanging dismally to a dingy leather 
strap, and opposite her was yet another young 


M/SS MARS TON. 


136 

lady, to speak nothing of an elderly lady in the 
centre and a young man at one side. 

“ No passengers fer you ter-day,” grinned 
Dave at the hotel where he stopped to deposit 
the mail sack. “ The boom’s gone outer the 
hull town I reckon.” 

“No ? we rather expected some one, too,” 
returned a very thin man, evidently the post- 
master, for he took the sack and threw it into 
the office. He spoke in a questioning tone, 
and directed his eyes expressively toward the 
interior of the coach. 

“ Th’ parties Major Suit’s a been expectin’, ” 
returned Dave so^io voce., whipping up the 
blacks. 

The entry at the gate of Potter House was 
an imposing one. Penn watched it from an 
upper window. First came Jo down from her 
high seat, scorning assistance, and throwing 
open the coach door. Gladys, tired, and with 
an exclamation of relief at the journey’s end, 
stepped down, and was followed by Aumerle, 
who jumped lightly out, and assisted Mrs. 
Sowders. Then, cautiously, came Dorris, her 


M/SS MARSTON. 


137 


light travelling wrap blowing back and disclos- 
ing, briefly, an expanse of her gray, clinging 
dress. Penn noticed she appeared worn and 
fatigued, and once, when she stumbled in the 
path, fell against Aumerle with a convulsive 
little grasp at his coat lappels, plainly show- 
ing she was nervous, and possibly dispirited. 
“ Was she thinking of the coming meeting ? ” 
asked Escanes with a feeling of half-exultation, 
half-pity, as he left the window and went down- 
stairs. 

They entered the house just as people in 
the ordinary walks of life usually do enter — 
there was nothing sensational, nothing even 
dramatic. Escanes met them in the hall. 

“ How are you, old fellow,” said Aumerle 
shaking hands heartily. 

“ Oh, Penn, we’ve had a delightful trip on 
that dear old stage coach! ” came from enthu- 
siastic Jo. 

“ Dear old fiddlesticks I It was perfectly 
awful, and my head aches,” complained Gladys. 

Dorris gave him a bright, brief nod, and 
passed into the parlor. 


M/SS MARS TON, 


138 

“ You seem almost a total stranger,” re- 
marked Mrs. Sowders warmly. “We were so 
sorry not to have met you in Leadville, but you 
see we were busy straightening up Dorris’s 
matters — you know her Uncle Paul was 
interested there at the time of his death — and 
suppose you were engaged on matters of your 
own.” She chatted on as Penn followed her 
into the room, but he scarcely understood what 
she was saying. There was a busy time with 
wraps, and questions innumerable, all of which 
Major Suit was supposed to answer at once, 
and with entire satisfaction to the interrogators. 

The scene at the dinner-table was one that 
certainly did the Major’s heart good. Potter 
House was now just what he had ever desired 
to see it — a place for the assemblage of jovial 
young people. He beamed from the head of 
the table and insisted on ruining the digestion 
of everyone present. 

Fate, and the blunder of the yellow-skinned 
waiter, placed Dorris and Penn side by side. 

“ I suppose Auntie has told you we were in 
Leadville — I am extremely sorry we did not 


MISS MARSTOAT. 


139 


meet you, but we were in a terrible rush dur- 
ing our short stay, and had to get to Denver.” 

She spoke very calml}^ and in quite a 
matter-of-fact tone. Penn leaned toward her — 
unmanneredly, but earnestly : 

“ I believe I did meet you,” he said. 

“ Indeed ? Where, and why did you not 
speak ? ” came surprisedly. 

“ You were not exactly in a position con- 
ducive to my addressing you,” he replied. He 
was becoming rather ill at ease. He had 
desired to impress her that, no matter how 
cleverly she might blindfold others, he at least 
was alive to her motives. 

“ And may I ask how such a peculiar thing 
came about ? ” 

She glanced over her coffee-cup with a trace 
of mirth in her large, clear eyes. 

“ You were some distance up the street — you 
and Mrs. Sowders, I attempted to overtake you, 
but was suddenly stopped by an acquaintance 
and, by the time I excused myself to hurry 
after you, both had disappeared. It was the 
last day of your stay in the city.” 


140 


M/SS MARSTON. 


He lied — unhesitatingly. When he thought 
the matter over he wondered how he could 
have done otherwise, with her beautiful eyes 
looking into his. 

“ We have had such adventures,” said Miss 
Marston after a pause, “ ever since you left us 
at Manitou. It seems there can hardly be a 
point in the state we have not touched — Uncle 
Paul had so many interests in Colorado. Do 
you believe,” she asked, “ That the Horn Spoon 
really amounts to anything ? ” 

“ Not being a judge of mines myself — 
although I am sorry to confess it — I really can- 
not say. The Major assured me yesterday, 
however, that he really believes ‘ pay ore ’ has 
been reached. At any rate he has increased 
or shortly will increase, his working force by 
the addition of three men.” 

“ So many ? ” she asked laughingly. 

“ The Major couldn’t take more trouble if 
he was employing an army,” he returned. 

“ The Major says we must visit the mine,” 
called Mrs. Sowders from her seat near that 
distinguished man, and breaking into the gen- 


JIf/SS MAHSTON'. 


14 1 


eral conversation without discord — for, of 
course, they were all speaking of the mine. 

“ Wallie will be here to-morrow — we must 
wait for him,” cautioned Jo, fearing some plan 
might be agreed upon in the unravelling of 
which that interesting young man would have 
no interest. “ It was horridly mean of you. 
Major, to make him stay in Denver to attend 
your poky old business.” 

“ And we promised we wouldn’t do a single 
thing until he came,” remarked Gladys. 

“ Then we won’t,” said the Major. “ The 
mine can wait.” 

“ Somebody should do something,” decided 
Jo, when the little company was variously dis- 
tributed throughout the warm parlor that even- 
ing. She was wishing Herrick was present — 
then there would hardly be a need for such a 
suggestion. 

“You might sing us something,” observed 
the Major. 

“Oh, I’m perfectly awful at singing — 1 
couldn’t possibly,” said the young woman, re- 
tiring to Aumerle’s corner. 


142 


M/SS MARSTON. 


“ Dorris sings very well,” volunteered Mrs. 
Sowders. “Won’t you oblige us, dear? ’ she 
asked, looking over her spectacles. The cha- 
perone had already produced her “ lace work ” 
and presented the appearance of an industrious 
matron with her busy needles. 

Dorris went to the rosewood piano. She 
struck a few chords, and then sang, with intense 
sweetness and feeling, a ballad that never grows 
old — the song of all nations, “ Kathleen Ma- 
vourneen.” Her magnificent soprano voice 
swelled and diminished ; it filled ever}'^ corner, 
every nook, every heart in the big room. It 
floated out into the night air and reached the 
ears of the engineer at the mine. The little 
shaft wheel seemed even to pause from its dizzy 
whirl, and the whirling machinery became 
stilled. The song throbbed, pulsed with feel- 
ing, and ended like a softly-dying zephyr. 

It was very quiet as she finished — somehow, 
none of the little party cared to talk much. 
They congratulated Dorris, of course, but a 
wonderful calmness seemed to fall over them 
all — a sort of charm, which they feared to 


M/SS MARSTON. 


143 


break. It was not long before subdued good- 
nights were uttered, followed by a general rush 
for the sleeping rooms. 

For a long time the bright fire outlined a 
figure in black — the figure of a man, with 
bowed head and clasped hands. There was 
scarcely a move to be noticed, so steadfastly 
did he gaze at the long strip of red stone on 
the hearth. All at once he was startled by a 
half-stifled exclamation, and turned to see 
Dorris softly entering the room. She had just 
left the fantastic curtains in the door, which 
were now half parted, and her slight, graceful 
form stood out strongly in the dancing light. 

“ I thought you were a burglar,” she said 
with a smile. 

“ You flatter me.” 

“ Nonsense — I scarcely expected to find any- 
one here, and you startled me at first. Auntie 
mislaid her needles, and is confident — ah, here 
they are now. I really believe she would go 
insane if her needles were lost over night — she 
would certainly lose a great amount of neces- 
sary rest.” 


144 


MISS MAKS TON. 


Miss Marston picked up the tiny bits of steel 
with their lace attachment and walked over to 
the fireplace. 

“ And why are you sitting up so late, may I 
ask ? Plotting ? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ plotting deeply.” 

“ I suppose you are fashioning some new 
novel — absorbing in interest, intricate in plot 
and dazzling with wit ; these are tlie chief 
things to be considered now-a-days, I believe, 
when one writes novels.” 

“ I am not so sure about the wit — I shall 
certainly endeavor to make it interesting.” 

“ Thrilling ? ” 

“ Perhaps so — it will open with a murder.” 

“ How horrible ! ” 

“ Yes ; an unusual crime. A party of three 
visit a small village in France — husband and 
wife, but recently wedded, and a brother of the 
bride. The husband is old — his wife does not 
love him. Her brother finally excites her to a 
state of absolute dislike, and together they mur- 
der him, fastening the crime on a boy who had 
been the devoted attendant of Monsieur. He 


MrSS MARSTON. 


145 

is sent to the galleys, while Madame — who was 
formerly but a commonplace American girl, 
with no fortune excepting possibly, her pre- 
possessing face — aided by her brother, enjoys 
her ill-gotten wealth. This is but the prologue 
— but, pshaw ! how can my tedious stories 
interest you ? ” 

“ They do interest me greatly,” she replied, 
seating herself in a huge cushioned rocker, just 
opposite him, and full in the firelight. “ Por- 
tions of them at least. What occurs after the 
prologue 'i I suppose the heroine — or is she the 
heroine .? — lives a life of remorse and enters 
a convent just as a distinguished young man 
becomes enamored of her.” 

“ Hardly that. She is a scheming adven- 
turess. Reckless living causes her husband’s 
fairy gold to magically vanish. She adopts the 
stage as a profession, appearing in low theatres 
in the remote west. She leads a double life, 
pretending, when she believes there is no pos- 
sibility of discovery, to be a rich eastern heiress. 
She hoodwinks all but one— a young man 

whose position in the story I have not decided 
10 


146 


M7SS MARSTON. 


upon, but believe I will make a novelist, or 
something of that sort. He will, of course, 
thwart her plans, and she may — yes, may enter 
a convent.” 

He was looking at her intently as she en- 
deavored to re-arrange the fancy work she had 
disordered. He had expected her to start, to 
leave the room — to faint, perhaps. He had 
expected something — what, he scarcely could 
tell, but something of an unusual nature. She 
merely bent over her lace with steady fingers, 
only looking up when he paused, with an ex- 
pression of honest curiosity in her eyes. 

“ Doesn’t the galley-slave come to light ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” he said with a slight intonation 
of disgust — the scene he had counted on cre- 
ating a dramatic climax having failed so utterly 
as to make him thoroughly despondent, “ I 
suppose he will have to do something; I haven’t 
quite decided what — you see my story is some- 
what vague as yet.” 

“ Decidedly vague,” she responded rising. 
“ I think it wildly improbable, and do not be- 


MISS MARS TON. 


147 


lieve it will attract half the attention your other 
books have.” 

“ I intend to bring out her dual personality 
with exceptionally strong force,” he said some- 
what warmly. “ That is where I shall make 
my hit. It surely is not so ‘ wildly improbable’ 
as you say. It is not an unusual thing for one 
to lead a double life.” 

“ No, I think we all have two natures,” she 
said thoughtfully, “ the one almost exactly 
opposite the other — in some cases, of course. 
In others it is not so strongly marked. But 
are there not other roads for your heroine to 
follow when she becomes penniless — why 
should she adopt a concert hall? Your read- 
ers will scarcely appreciate the character.” 

“ I do not intend they shall. That is one 
of my main reasons for carrying the matter so 
far. For my own part I detest a woman who 
would stoop so low, as badly as you would 
detest her.” 

His eyes were looking straight into hers. 
She regarded him steadily, thoughtfully. 

“ I do not believe I should detest her exactly,” 


M/SS MARSTON. 


was the slow reply. “ Of course there could 
be no defense of her action. I would pity, 
rather than scorn.” 

Then she looked toward the fire and smiled. 

“ Here we are, discussing your imaginary 
heroines and Mrs. Sowders probably wild 
with apprehension lest I have come to harm. 
Good-night — if you come to any satisfactory 
conclusion regarding the disposal of your char- 
acters, let me know ! ” 

The drapery closed behind her, and he 
heard her go softly up the stairs. Then, more 
bewildered, more puzzled, even resentful, he 
turned to the fire again, and studied its red 
changing depths. 


M/SS MAA’S2'0JV. 


149 


CHAPTER III. 

CONFIDENTIAL. 

When a party of eight, equally divided as to 
sex, are practically isolated from the world for 
an entire summer, it is hardly possible to avert 
the arrows of a peculiar little god usually sup- 
posed to be invisible. When the party is 
largely made up of young people, it is more 
than impossible — it is wholly improbable. 

“ I want to ask your advice about some- 
thing,” said Herrick going to Escanes’ room 
one day and cautiously closing the door — “some- 
thing that is very important.” 

Penn motioned him to a seat, but he evi- 
dently preferred standing, for he disregarded 
the movement and looked toward the window. 

“ I’m in a fix,” be remarked uneasily. 


150 


M/SS MAKS TON. 


“ Yes? Well, you are not alone in that 
respect, Wallie. It’s a very difficult one I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Very — it’s about love.” 

“ Then there is no doubt of it.” 

“ I came to you because I’ve known you so 
long and, — and had no one else to go to,” 
stammered the young man. 

Perfectly proper. Delicate matters require 
delicate fingers.” 

“ Th — that’s what I thought. Well — ” 
straightening himself and concentrating his 
gaze on the pine tree beside the window, “ it’s 
just this : I don’t know which one I like 
best ! ” 

“ Which one — to whom do you refer ? ” 

“ Why they, of course. Haven’t you seen ? 
Jo and Gladys.” 

Startling as it seemed in Herrick’s eyes, 
Penn had not “ seen.” 

There were other love affairs than Wallie’s. 

“ And it’s the question of ‘ which ’ ? ” 

“ Yes, — you see sometimes I think it’s Jo and 
sometimes Gladys — although I haven’t seen 


M/SS MARSTON. 


151 

much of Gladys since I came down here ; she’s 
always with Jack,” he complained. “Jo is 
awfully jolly, but she says ‘ horrid ’ so much I 
am beginning to dislike her. If she didn’t say 
that I don’t believe I’d hesitate a minute ! ” 

“ You are a very queer young man,” 
observed Penn soberly, turning in his chair, 
“ and this is an exceedingly important and 
ponderous matter. You must give me time to 
think it over. I will weigh the relative merits 
of these young ladies and give you my decision 
before the end of the week — that is, if you 
haven’t arrived at a conclusion yourself and 
still believe I am capable of judging. How 
will that do ? ” 

Herrick turned his eyes from the tree and 
grasped his companion’s shoulders enthusi- 
astically. 

“ Penn, you’re just the man I wanted — you 
are a brick ! ” 

It was a day of surprises. During the after- 
noon Jack and Escanes met in the library. 
Jack was uneasy and evidently puzzled. 

“ I wish you’d tell me something,” he 


152 


MISS MARSTON. 


blurted, biting his moustache and running his 
hand through his hair. 

“ Certainly — the Washington monument is 
550 feet in height — the largest structure in the 
world barring the Eiffel tower, at least so this 
Universal Guide to Everything, tells me. Is 
that the class of information you desire t " 

“ Oh pshaw — of course it isn’t.” 

“ Then enlighten me. I’m the oracle of the 
house evidently — to-day, at least.” 

“ Well ; if you once loved a — a — well, a 
rather nice young lady— that is, if you thought 
you loved her — and one day, on a mountain — ” 

Penn’s expressive eyebrows went two degrees 
in height. 

“ Well, in a valley — somewhere, anywhere,” 
blundered the confessor. “ Don’t look at me 
while I tell you this, you get me confused. It’s 
a delicate subject.” 

Penn obligingly scanned the long rows of 
leather-bound wisdom to his right. 

“ If you thought you loved her, and in a 
moment of indiscretion proposed to her and 
she — well, didn’t exactly refuse, but spoke as 


M/SS MARSTON. 


153 


though you were a blamed idiot running wild, 
what would you think ? ” 

“ I should think she did not admire me.” 

“ But if, after you recovered from your first 
passion, and decided you did not love her and 
found some one else you believed — honestly 
believed — you really did love, do you think the 
— the other young woman would have a broken 
heart ; or anything like that } She might get 
to thinking she did admire me, you know.” 

“ I don’t believe I would worry if I were in 
your place, Jack.” 

He spoke almost joyously, exultantly. His 
one doubt was removed— A umerle had re- 
covered from his Manitou passion. 

“ Miss Marston is not of the heart-breaking 
order — she has had far too much experience for 
that.” 

“ B — but the way she appears lately. She 
seems quite desolate.” 

“ Is that so ? ” asked Escanes quickly. “ I 
hadn’t noticed it.” 

“ I thought perhaps it was on my account ; 
but I suppose I am an old ‘ poke ’ for ever 


154 M/SS MARSTON. 

letting it enter my head. And I really admire 
Gladys.” 

“ Then you had better persist in your ad- 
miration,” decided Penn, shaking him warmly 
by the hand. 

The conversation had both pleased and puz- 
zled Escanes. With what he knew, or believed 
he knew, of Miss Marston’s history, he had de- 
cided she was little better than an adventuress 
of the very worst type. Calm deliberation had 
told him she was heartless and designing, de- 
spite her seeming innocence. He had supposed 
her ultimate object was to secure, through as 
hasty a marriage as possible, Aumerle’s wealth. 
He had wished to, in some way, avert this 
without openly denouncing the young woman 
as a criminal. Jack’s unintentional remark 
concerning her action on the mountain had 
completely thrown his pet idea to the winds, 
making the case all the more complicated, 
although relieving him immensely. Escanes 
could not deny he loved Miss Marston. He 
even respected her, while yet the blot, black 
and ineffaceable, was constantly before him with 


M/SS MARSTON'. 


155 


all its seeming truth. The riddle of the Sphinx 
could not confound him more than this self- 
possessed young woman. 

“ Confession is ever good for the soul — 
he feared, yet desired Dorris to speak of her 
crime. He felt she could not be wholly guilty, 
and the thought that this invisible brother of 
her’s might really be the light, the key, to the 
whole seemingly insoluble matter, was ever 
uppermost. 

Seven weeks’ association with her at Potter 
House had developed absolutely nothing. 
Cleverly planned remarks, suddenly directed 
toward her at opportune moments, had failed 
to bring even the slightest acknowledgment of 
their meaning from her. They were on the 
cliffs one day, looking down at the discolored, 
swollen stream, surging along a hundred feet 
below. He had attempted a ruse, had been 
wholly unsuccessful and doubly mystified. He 
had all but accused her of double dealing, fear- 
ing, as he ever did, of learning the truth. 

“ I wish I could understand you,” he had 
said, at length, in desperation. 


156 


MISS MAKS TON. 


“ There is so very little about me to under- 
stand that you would not be repaid for your 
trouble. And as for that matter, why don’t 
you understand me ? Other people do ! ” 

He did not know what reply to make. It 
was seldom he did, when she spoke like that — 
half disgustedly, half scornfully, as though he 
were trying to make a puzzle out of something 
that was clearly logical. 

Occasionally he would attempt to draw some- 
thing from Mrs. Sowders, but very rarely, it 
must be confessed, for he found conversation 
with her very tedious and not inspiring. She 
knew nothing — absolutely nothing — or else 
knew a great deal and knew enough not to tell 
it. She was wholly at sea when Penn began to 
throw out morbid hints of murders at St. Ma- 
thilde and variety actresses at Leadville, and in 
time began to privately believe literature had 
driven the young man insane. She spoke of 
“ Dorris’ Uncle Paul,” when family connec- 
tions were touched upon, and delighted in rem- 
iniscences of that eccentric individual. But as 


M/SS MA/e STOAT. 


157 


a source for the information Escanes sought, 
Mrs. Sowders was uninterestingly dry. 

Now that Aumerle had assisted in making 
confusion more confounded, Escanes was at a 
loss which way to turn, and lay back in his 
chair after his friend quitted the library, 
endeavoring to collect his somewhat hazy 
thoughts. 

The harsh scraping of hoofs on the graveled 
roadway caused him to look up. As he did so, 
a horse dashed by the open window, and from 
her neat seat Dorris waved a farewell. Her 
handkerchief and a scrap of paper fluttered to 
the ground, but the horse galloped on, and its 
rider was evidently none the wiser for the slight 
mishap. Penn went out and picked them up. 
The note was addressed to Miss Dorris Mars- 
ton, and was mailed at Gibson — and Dorris was 
then going in the direction of Gibson. 

“ It is either more mystery, or a milliner’s 
bill,” decided Penn. He could easily have 
read the note, but its contents were not in- 
tended for him, and were not supposed to con- 
cern him. A perusal might have cleared the 


158 


M/SS MARSTON. 


myster}^ possibly, and he might have known 
it, yet he did what any man of honor would 
have done under the circumstances — kept 
both the handkerchief and note, and presented 
them to the young lady when she returned. 

He met her in what Major Peck designated 
the “ general room,” but which would have 
served its purpose quite as well under the name 
of parlor. He noted, quickly, that she was 
looking pale, worn, and even distressed. 

“ I fear your ride rather did you more harm 
than good,” he said, after her warm “thank 
you ; how stupid of me to lose them,” on re- 
ceiving the lost articles. 

“ Do you notice it ? ” she asked, with a forced 
attempt at her usual brightness. “ Yes, indeed ; 
I fear I went too far — and I am somewhat un- 
used to the exercise.” 

She did not appear at the dinner table, 
pleading, through her chaperone^ a slight attack 
of physical prostration, brought on by the ride. 
Her absence was noticed, of course, but passed 
over. Jack was too greatly engrossed review- 
ing the events of the day with Gladys to notice 


MISS MARSTON-. 


159 


any particular falling off from the usual num- 
ber at the table. The Major was attempting 
to explain to Mrs. Sowders the relative 
value of ores, and the more elaborately he 
dwelt upon them, further to sea did Mrs. Sow- 
ders’ brain-craft drift. Jo and Wallie were 
fully engaged. Only Penn really felt, with 
something like a disappointed pang, the vacancy 
in the party. The meal seemed to drag terri- 
bly, and he was more than relieved when it 
ended. 

Herrick pushed him to one side before leav- 
ing the dining-room. 

“ Well ? ” he interrogated, eagerly. 

“ Marry Jo, young man ; I believe you love 
her better than the other.” 

“ I’m glad you said that, for I’m beginning 
to believe I do like Jo a little the best— but 
Gladys is a nice girl, just the same. Thank 
you ever so much, old fellow.” 

He went off, whistling softly, evidently be- 
lieving Escanes had conferred a favor on him 
he could never repay. 


i6o 


M/SS MARSTON. 


CHAPTER IV. 

UNDERGROUND. 

“We are developing the south drift in the 
fourth level,” announced the Major with min- 
ing mysticism to the little party gathered in 
the shaft house, “ and I believe we may as well 
confine our exploration to that and the third 
level — inasmuch as the other two are not being 
worked,” he added, sotto voce. “ Now, since 
we can’t all go down at once, I would suggest 
the advisability of splitting up the party. Miss 
Jo-” 

“ Oh, I don’t want to go first,” exclaimed 
that young lady, retreating in dismay. “ I — I 
am not sure I want to go at all.” 

“ Nonsense — just as easy as goin’ down the 
elevator in a hotel,” proclaimed the Major. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


i6i 

“ I will go first,” declared Dorris, smiling at 
Jo. 

She stepped on to the square little platform 
which completely fitted the great hole and shut 
out its blackness, and was followed by Gladys, 
timidly, but with a vague resolution that she 
would do or die. Then came Jack, then Her- 
rick, and then the mine superintendent, a tall, 
jolly-faced individual in brown. The little party 
of five, with their slouch hats and greasy min- 
ing coats, presented an appearance so ludicrous 
that Jo ventured nearer the platform to examine 
and jest over them. Then came the signal and 
the erect figures were lowered swiftly and noise- 
lessly into the deep mine. There was nothing 
to be seen — a pitchy darkness shut out even 
the faces of those on the cage as the soft up- 
current of air brushed them. The journey w^as 
surprisingly short and without incident, yet 
Hanlon, the superintendent, informed the quar- 
tette they were four hundred feet below the 
earth’s surface, when the elevator gently stopped 
at a high opening directly in front of them. 
It was the third level. They had passed two 


i 62 


M/SS MARS TON. 


Others so securely barred that not the slightest 
intimation of their being there came to mind. 
The third level sloped away from the shaft in 
two opposite tunnels. A dim lantern hung at 
the junction, throwing a sickly, weird light 
over the objects before it. 

“ The Major knows the mine and can attend 
to the others,” said Hanlon, ringing for the cage 
to be hoisted. The short candles in their steel, 
sharp-pointed holders were lighted, and the 
superintendent led the way through the tunnel 
to the right, followed, in order, by Penn, Dorris, 
Jack and Gladys. Massive beams of wood, 
supporting the uneven, hard roof, rose on them 
at each side as they proceeded. Narrow planks 
thrown on the sticky clay floor, served as a 
dry walk through the passage. It was oppres- 
sively still and close — not even an echo of their 
foot-falls could be heard. Their way wound 
in and out, down rough ladders and up rougher 
ones. Once they entered a huge, rock-ribbed 
chamber, hollowed from the very centre of the 
earth, it seemed. A few men were working 
here, and the drill-noises reverberated strangely 


M/SS MARSTON. 


163 

throughout the massive, ghostly place. Atone 
end a drift ran slopingly, and to this the guide 
bent his steps. A narrow railway threaded 
through this downward passage, and occasion- 
ally a little box-like iron car would be met, 
freighted with yellow, ugly lumps of ore. The 
drift was well lighted, but the explorers were 
forced to cling to the walls for fear of a too- 
sudden collision with the swift going cars. Fin- 
ally, after traversing innumerable tunnels with 
their short side-issues to constantly confuse, the 
guide announced they had reached the fourth 
level, where the chief work was being carried 
on. Here there were smaller drifts with a few 
men in each. In some places a white fungus 
clung to the wet, unsteady props, and there were 
frequent illustrations of a serious mine “ cave,” 
where the heavy earth had broken through the 
old, unreliable timbers and closed up the tempo- 
rary, artificial gaps, made by the daily labor of 
man. It was in these old workings that the 
recent strike had been accidentally made. A 
miner, having occasion to go to one end of the 
insecure catacomb-like place, had caused the 


164 


MISS MARS TON. 


earth to fall, by a slight jar, and, rolling down, 
it revealed a solid block of what seemed un- 
doubtedly, in the somewhat affrighted man’s 
eyes, ore of at least greater value than the Major 
was just then getting. 

“ The discovery in the Horn Spoon will 
prove the most novel, the most phenomenal,” 
said Hanlon, enthusiastically, “ in the history 
of mining, when it becomes known.” 

From the location of the strike to the shaft, 
the passage was almost straight, and ran grad- 
ually down. It was slippery and damp, and 
much more difficult to travel than by the cir- 
cuitous route from the third level. The little 
iron cars shrieked with a rusty, disnial cadence 
as they rattled by, seeming like huge, winged 
bats scudding through the darkness, while the 
candles flickered and sputtered, and always 
seemed on the verge of going out. Despite 
the mortise-jointed timbers the place appeared 
very insecure. 

A long, low wail, evidently intended for a 
cheery “ hullo ! ” reached the ears of the party. 


Af/SS MARSTON. 165 

Dorris shuddered and Gladys gave a little 
frightened scream. 

“ It’s only the Major,” explained Hanlon, 
“ he’s coming on and wants us to wait ; that’s 
the way a voice sounds a long distance under- 
ground.” 

They stopped, Dorris and Penn walking on 
a few steps ahead of the others, and pausing 
beside the bended figure of a man, who was re- 
pairing some defect in the small steel rails. 
He was so intent upon the performance of his 
delicate duty that he did not look up to note 
who the spectators were. Under his swift blows 
the small bits of steel sent out a ringing, cheer- 
ful sound — the only noise they had heard in 
the mine that did not partially frighten them. 
Once he placed his lantern on the track just in 
front of him, and its rays fell across his mud- 
stained face, revealing the outline of his featues 
with a sudden distinctness that caused Penn to 
fall against the muddy wall in alarm as he rec- 
ognized them. His train of thought, quick and 
lucid, was scarcely comforting. The kneeling 
man was Francois Ferri ; behind him stood the 


i66 


M/SS MARS TON. 


woman he had crossed the waters and scaled 
the mountains to kill ; if she spoke he would 
recognize her ; if he glanced up he would know 
both figures standing over him ; if Penn spoke 
the recognition would as quickly follow. The 
situation was peculiar and decidedly alarming 
to the novelist. Some distance up the drift he 
could see the figures of Aumerle, Gladys and 
Hanlon, grotesque in the feeble candle-light. 
Still further back, small, minute pieces of flame 
seemed to dance about in the darkness — the 
light of the Major’s party as they advanced 
slowly. One candle did service for both Dorris 
and Escanes, the latter holding it by his side. 
As he looked down, he noted with increased 
alarm that the miner’s task was almost finished 
— the tightening of a screw would see it com- 
pleted. Dorris was watching the work with an 
interest born of its novelty, and was even bend- 
ing over the form of the stooping boy. There 
was no time to reason — the quickest way out, 
without discovery, was the thought uppermost 
with Escanes. He gently extinguished the 
flame of his candle, and pushed the round, white 


MISS MAKSTON. 


167 


piece of tallow into one of the many little holes 
in the side of the drift. Then, half-stum- 
blingly, he advanced toward the lantern and 
kicked it down the passage, breaking the 
glass and causing the flame to blaze and then 
suddenly vanish. 

The man was on his feet in an instant. 

“ How stupid of me,” said Penn, with forced 
calmness, disguising his natural intonation as 
best he could. “ Those confounded little rails 
have been a constant annoyance to me ever 
since we were down here. I sincerely beg your 
pardon, my man, and trust I have not fright- 
ened you.” 

“ Et es all right — I am stupid for not to let 
you pass,” returned the boy, in a low expression- 
less tone. “ I will get another,” and he moved 
up tov/ards the grotesque figures, passing them 
with a quaint gesture and then moving on. 

“ These rails are abominable,” said Dorris, 
unsteadily ; “ but how you upset me ! ” 

“ I am extremely sorry,” returned Penn, in a 
voice that flatly contradicted his statement. 
“ My candle has fallen here somewhere.” 


i68 


MJSS MARSTOlsr. 


He found it in the little nook at last, and 
lighted it. He was very pale, and his hand 
quite unsteady. 

“We may as well walk on,” he said ; “ there 
is nothing more to see, I believe, and the shaft 
cannot be far away.” 

So they passed down the drift, followed, before 
they had proceeded far, by their companions. 

The cage was standing at the entrance to 
the level when they reached it, and Penn 
stepped on the platform without ceremony, fol- 
lowed by Dorris. Jo, very quiet and rather 
pale, decided she would go up with the first 
party. Her journey underground had been 
one of almost constant terror. 

“ I feel just as though the whole world was 
coming down on me, every minute,” she de- 
clared at intervals, during her progress through 
the mine. “ Isn't it awful } ” 

But, when a great golden streak of light shot 
down to meet the cage as it neared the opening 
of the shaft, there was one even more thankful 
than Jo to see the brown old shaft-house with 
its whirring machinery. 


MISS MARSTON. 


196 


PART IV. 

AT THE END OF THE WORLD. 
CHAPTER I. 

REVELATIONS IN A DOG CART. 

Early the following day Penn made a spe- 
cial visit to the mine. The men were just pre- 
paring to go down for their day’s work, and 
among them was Francois. 

“ Ah ! et es Monsieur! ” he exclaimed, enthu- 
siastically. “ You see I have come down to 
the work once more,” he added, with his cus- 
tomary shrug. 

“ Work will never hurt you,” retorted Penn, 
dryly. “ If you had been working all your life 
instead of running wild over the world on your 
fool’s errand, you would have been better 
for it.” 

“ My fool’s errand, as you have say, es a mis- 


MISS MARS TON. 


I 70 

sion,” said the boy, clinching his hands and 
drawing his body erect. “ Et es a duty I owe 
to myself.” 

“ Then you should have become disgusted, 
by this time, in attempting to pay the debt. 
What have you gained by running away from 
me, as you did ? ” 

“ Nothing,” returned the boy, sullenly. “ My 
money, which was a little, so very little. Mon- 
sieur, did I spend for your cursed American 
railroad tickets — the railroad take all my 
money ; every sou since I come to this coun- 
try.” 

“ Nothing remarkable in that. Your varied 
tastes for travelling would command a pretty 
heavy pull on the pocket-book of a millionaire. 
Well, you were stranded — where.? ” 

“ In the Pueblo. Then did I see the — what 
you call the advertisement for men to work in 
the mine. I was destitute. Monsieur; I ask 
for the situation, and get it. They send me 
here.” 

“ You have, then, given up your insane ‘ mis- 
sion,’ as you call it .? ” 


M/SS MARS TON-. 


71 


“ Not for always, Monsieur — not for always. 
But I must have money — I must work.” 

“ Where do you think this individual you so 
persistently seek has gone } ” 

“ To the south, I have believe. She has seen 
me, and will go as far away as et es possible. 

She will try to escape, but ” 

“ There, stop that. You get too excited by 
far without provocation. Now I’ll tell you 
what ni do. If you are so firmly convinced 
that you cannot die peacefully without first 
having seen your interesting young woman, I 
believe the best plan is to search her out. As 
you say, she probably has gone south. I am 
willing to furnish you with all the money you 
require to follow her. Only stick to the south 
— she is undoubtedly down there somewhere.” 

“ Monsieur es too good — too kind,” cried the 
boy, seizing Penn’s hands. 

“ Perhaps so. You had better leave as 
quickly as possible ; the stage goes early this 
afternoon. Be at Gibson at noon, at the hotel, 
and I will meet you.” 

Francois would have continued his custom- 


172 


MISS MASSTOM. 


ary effusive attacks, but Penn waved him back 
with a half disgusted gesture, and left the place. 

He worried through the remainder of the 
morning impatiently. Now that the solution 
of his great problem was at hand, he was less 
inclined than ever to take the necessary steps 
toward its eclaircissement. The mere sight of 
Francois, even at a distance, might, he consid- 
ered, draw the whole story from Dorris. Yet, 
strangely enough, that was just what he pro- 
posed should not occur. A recognition would 
undoubtedly be fatal. And, in truth, he was 
beginning to think it best to let the whole thing 
go. Miss Marston had injured him in no way, 
She was certainly not fortune-hunting, despite 
the peculiar methods she had been pursuing, 
and as for her little masquerade in Leadville — 
well, perhaps it was a stupendous joke that 
would be explained in time. At any rate, he 
would wait until she explained it — he would 
not frighten a confession of any sort from her. 
She might murder a hundred husbands for all 
he cared. 

Then, as was customary, he went over the 


M/SS MARSTON. 


173 


entire unsatisfactory one-sided story again, end- 
ing with its perplexing proposition. 

He had the brown pony harnessed to the 
dog-cart early in the afternoon. When it was 
driven to the door Mrs. Sowders was sitting on 
the veranda. 

“ Do you go to Gibson .? ” she questioned of 
Penn, as the latter drew on his gloves. 

“Yes,” he returned. “I shall be gone for 
some time.” 

“ What an opportunity for Dorris ! ” ex- 
claimed the little woman, “ Why, she was 
about to have her horse saddled in order to get 
to Gibson before the stage left. We have a 
number of letters to mail.” 

Dorris came downstairs just then, and, 
noting the neat cart through the open door, 
went out on to the veranda. 

“ I was just saying you might ride to Gibson 
with Mr. Escanes — that is, if he don’t mind, 
and I’m sure he don’t,” explained Mrs. Sowders. 

“ I might take the letters myself,” said Penn, 
hastily, “and so save Miss Marston the trouble.” 

“ It is not the letters alone I am going for,” 


174 


M/SS MARSTON. 


remarked Dorris with a trifle of annoyance. 
“ It’s very necessary that I should — should go 
for other reasons.” 

She was' apparently confused and not a little 
vexed. 

“ Is your own business so very important ? ” 
she asked. “ Because if it isn’t I could trans- 
act it as well ; there is no necessity for your 
going, and I might take Gladys with me. 
She said she was dying to ride but was afraid 
to drive alone — Gladys is so peculiar about 
horses, you know.” 

“ I cannot possibly defer my trip or I would 
give the dog-cart over to you — and the errand 
I go on can be transacted by no other.” He 
might have added “ you least of all,” and been 
entirely correct. 

It was plainly evident that Mjss Marston had 
every desire to keep Mr. Escanes from going 
to Gibson. It was equally evident that Mr. 
Escanes strongly desired Miss Marston to 
abandon her proposed visit. And it was vis- 
ibly apparent that both had decided to and 
must make the trip. 


M/SS MARSTON. 


175 


“ Gladys can wait,” said Mrs. Sowders. “ It 
is evidently a case of necessity with both of 
you, and you have the method of conveyance 
at the door. Put on your hat, Dorris.” 

Dorris entered the house and shortly re- 
turned, ready for the ride. Penn assisted her 
in the wagon without a word and drove slowly 
on, amid a silence most oppressive. After 
they had turned in the road, leaving the house 
some distance behind, its quaint roof just to be 
discerned amid the poplar trees, Penn said : 

“ I have every reason in the world to wish 
you would not go to Gibson to-day, Miss Mars- 
ton.” 

“ And I have every reason to wish the same 
with respect to yourself,” she returned. 

“We are each deep in a mystery, evidently. 
Mine I cannot explain.” 

“ Nor I mine. However, I shall ask you to 
leave me at the hotel, and then you may trans- 
act your business — or unravel your mystery, 
whatever it is, and I will not trouble you.” 

“ I am going to the hotel myself.” 

Miss Marston uttered a little exclamation of 


1 76 M'/SS MARSTON. 

alarm. She had turned quite pale, and sank 
against the cushions with an air of helplessness. 

“ Is it so serious with you ? It is a matter of 
life and death with me,” he said with an effort 
at calmness. He was wondering what Francois 
would do when he saw this woman. One 
thing was settled — Penn would protect her 
from any mad attack on the part of the boy — 
and then, he might not see her; a meeting 
could possibly be avoided. 

“ It is almost that with me,” replied Miss 
Marston. 

“ I am going to see a friend who leaves by 
the early stage.” 

Miss Marston had thoroughly calmed her- 
self. 

“ That is also my mission,” she said. Then 
followed silence, Penn attempting, in a be- 
wildered, disordered fashion, to think cohe- 
rently. 

“ In a case like this,” he said after a time, 
“the only way to manage, is to let matters take 
their course.” 

“ I suppose so,” she replied. “ I don’t 


M/SS MAffSTOM 


177 


fancy, however, either of us will be pleased with 
the course. I was wondering if it were possi- 
ble that we were both going to see the same 
person.” 

“ It is not unlikely,” he said. “ Affairs have 
been running so sensationally with me of late 
that I shouldn’t be at all surprised at any 
course events would take.” 

He turned desperately in his seat and looked 
straight at her. 

“ I am going to see a boy — Francois Ferri.” 

“ Then it is not the same person.” She 
seemed really relieved. 

Penn was thoroughly astounded. “ I am 
going to see the Major,” would have had no 
more effect than the words he had used. 

“ Do you mean to say you never heard of 
Francois Ferri ? ” he asked pointedly. 

“ I never heard the name before in my life,’ 
she said. “ Whoever he is, he must be a total 
stranger to me.” 

“ I was almost certain he knew you. 

“ Then he has the advantage,” she said 
simply. 


M/SS MARSrON-. 


178 

With the exception of a few desultory re- 
marks, apropos to nothing in particular, con- 
versation was then practically suspended. Es- 
canes, half-angry for showing his hand, and 
getting really no satisfaction in return, touched 
the pony viciously with the red whip, and the 
little animal started down the white road at a 
lively trot. Occasionally small, brown snakes, 
harmless but decidedly repulsive, would wriggle 
to the roadside as the vehicle ran along, and 
striped chattering squirrels on the fences 
seemed to scold at the yellow wheels and gay 
decorations of the cart. Tiny, highly-colored 
birds buzzed, bee-like, around the columbines 
and mallows. The sun was never brighter, the 
trees never more cheerful, with their soft rust- 
ling leaves, the mountains never more silently 
majestic. 

Yet it might have been the blackest night to 
the occupants of the dog-cart. A ride across a 
desert would have been as attractive and event- 
ful as their little journey that afternoon. They 
were riding down the main street of the mining 
camp almost before they were aware they had 


M/SS MARSTON. 


179 

left Potter House. Penn stopped at the hotel 
steps and his companion sprang lightly from the 
low carriage. His first nervous look was for 
Francois, and the youth’s conspicuous absence 
afforded him a great deal of relief. Tying the 
pony at one end of the porch, he turned to 
enter the office. 

To his surprise Miss Marston had remained 
there — evidently waiting. 

“ Will you come with me ? ” she asked, half- 
fearfully, as though he would refuse. “ You 
have told me why you came here — I would 
now like to explain my mission to you. If 
your friend can wait, will you come ? ” 

“ He is not here,” replied Penn. “ Yes, I 
will go with you.” 

“ Show us to room 6,” she said, turning to 
the expectant clerk. 

Up a wide, uncarpeted staircase, along a dis- 
tressingly bare, narrow hall, and a light rap on 
a shaky door, followed by a half-suppressed 
“ come in.” 

The room was not attractive. Like the ma- 
jority of apartments in mining-camp hotels, it 


i8o MISS MARSTON. 

was distinguished for its scant furniture and 
wall paper of remarkable pattern. There was 
a bed, a washstand and a desk. At one of the 
windows stood a young woman — a very young, 
slight, delicate woman, who had turned, ex- 
pectantly, toward the door. Penn glanced at 
the figure by the window, and then at the one 
by his side. A great light shone in his eyes 
a stifled, but thankful, cry broke from him— a 
cry almost echoed in tone by the first occupant 
of the room. He reeled and caught at the 
door to steady himself. Miss Marston’s voice 
came as from a long, a very long, distance. 

“ Mr. Escanes — my sister — Mrs. Terris.” 

He knew that he managed to bow ; that both 
ladies seemed greatly confused ; that the like- 
ness between them was remarkable— and that 
he must have air. He muttered something 
about the stifling condition of the room, opened 
the door and stumbled along the hall and down 
the stairs into the office. He tried to laugli, 
but failed. He wondered why it affected him 
so — this sudden breaking, sudden solving of 
his sphinx mystery. He could only feel thank- 


M/SS MARSTON. l8l 

ful — thankful and nothing more. He remem- 
bered in a misty, dim way that night on the 
heights at Leadville when he had been similarly 
affected — when the events had been brought 
about almost as they were now. 

“ Monsieur.” 

It was Francois. 

Then his mind suddenly cleared. 


i 82 


M/SS MARSTON. 


CHAPTER 11. 

FRANCOIS PURCHASES SOAP. 

“ Ah, you are here 

He must have shown the effects of his shock, 
for the boy said. 

“ Monsieur is ill.” 

“ Monsieur was never better in his life,” he 
returned sharply. 

“On thinking the matter over, Francois, I 
am of the opinion you had better not leave — 
just at present. You will need something of a 
travelling outfit, and I cannot supply you be- 
fore the stage leaves. You had better defer 
your departure until to-morrow ! ” 

“ Et will be as Monsieur wishes,” said the 
boy respectfully, but with an intonation of dis- 
appointment. “ Monsieur knows what es best.” 

Monsieur flattered himself that he did know 
what was best occasionally. The lumbering 


MISS MARSTON. 183 

Stage coach drew up before the door and there 
was a rustle of skirts on the stairway. Dorris 
was coming down, and directly behind her 
was a slight form in a drab travelling dress. 
Monsieur was in a fix. 

“ I wish you’d go down to Pink’s store for 
me,” he said, pushing the boy through the 
doorway. 

Pink’s store was very far down the street, 
and the stage would have left by the time Fran- 
cois returned. 

“ Oui, Monsieur, presently.” He had started 
toward the office, where he had left his dirty 
little valise. 

“ No, not presently, but at once — Pve got to 
have them. Pll take care of your satchel.” He 
held him by the shoulder and dragged him to 
the end of the porch. 

“ Quick, here — here’s the money,” nervously 
shoving a dollar into the boy’s hands, “ now be 
off.” 

Francois started down the street. The two 
ladies came from the office and stood beside 
the coach while the trunks were being placed 


1 84 


M/SS MARSTON^. 


on the outer seats. Dorris’ sister had a heavy 
veil covering the face, and betrayed nervousness 
in every movement. She finally stejDped inside 
the coach. Penn looked up the road. To his 
horror he saw Francois running back, and with 
a vague idea of cutting his throat or doing 
something equally as bad — anything to stop 
him, he rushed out and met the lad. 

“ Monsieur did not say what I was to buy,” 
he exclaimed breathlessly. 

“ Buy soap ! ” screamed Penn, turning the 
boy around, “ buy soap, and buy it d — quick, 
for I need it badly. Run ! ” 

“ Mon Dieu, he has the insane,” thought the 
amazed messenger as he started off quickly, 
“ he has surely the insane.” 

The great dusty coach rolled slowly off 
down the street, and Penn returned to the 
veranda. 

“ We had better start for Potter House at 
once,” he said decidedly, untying the strap 
holding the pony. He realized that the 
danger was far from being over, for should 
Francois return and see Dorris — well, the 


M/SS STOAT. 185 

prospect was too alarming to be considered. 

When they were seated he drove up the 
street like mad, thoroughly surprising the little 
brown pony and causing Miss Marston to open 
her eyes widely. 

“You are evidently in a great hurry,” she 
commented. 

“ Am I — well, yes — no — yes,” he stammered 
“ I wasn’t thinking what I was doing.” 

He began to laugh mildly at his little strata- 
gem and was in a sort of nervous good-humor 
during the drive home. They talked idly for 
awhile after leaving the camp behind, and then, 
after a pause, she looked up resolutely and 
said : 

“ I have something to tell you — something, I 
suppose, that should have been told long ago 
to some one, but somehow I never met the 
person I thought I could trust — I believe, Mr. 
Escanes, I may trust you.” 

Penn nodded. 

“You flatter me. I am prepared for the 
worst.” 

“ It is not so yery terrible — at least I do not 


M/SS MAKSTON. 


^l86 

think so. Your opinion may differ — it usually 
does.” 

She was now looking at the white road in 
front of them. 

“ My mission to Gibson to-day,” she began, 
“ was, as you now know, to see my sister. In 
the eyes of the world — when the world cares to 
turn its eyes in her direction — she is a very bad 
woman, a wicked woman. I have no regard 
for my sister — that is, no especial affection. 
We made our entrance into the world together, 
and played together as children. Her name 
is Dorothy, mine, as you know, Dorris. 
We bear a resemblance striking, yet perfectly 
natural. At an early age, Dorothy and myself 
were left parentless and were taken under the 
protection of our Uncle Paul, of whom you 
have doubtless heard me speak. Our life was 
not a pleasant one. Uncle Paul was very rich, 
very disagreeable, and usually, unjust. We 
were both treated as dependents from the first. 
Dorothy, who was proud even to resentfulness, 
felt keenly the position in which she was 
placed. One day, when Uncle Paul was more 


M/SS MARSTON, 


severe than usual, he taunted her with her 
poverty, and she, scarcely deigning to answer 
him, quitted the house and never entered it 
again. She was but 15 at the time and wholly 
inexperienced. ‘ Let her go,’ stormed my 
Uncle, ‘she will be the better for it, the beg- 
gar ; she is now where she belongs — in the 
street’ I attempted to search her out — it was 
impossible. Two years later we learned she 
had gone to London, having adopted the stage 
as a profession. Later we heard, indirectly, 
that she had married a wealthy Englishman, 
John Terris, by name. Next came the report — 
just after Uncle Paul died, willing me his 
fortune and entirely ignoring my sister — that 
Terris had died in the south of France. There 
could have been little affection in the marriage, 
for a month later an old admirer who, I believe, 
had something to do with the beginning of 
her stage career, led her to the altar. This 
was Paul Bartow, an American. She failed 
in an attempt to get any part of her first 
husband’s estate, for he left a will, evidently 
formulated before his marriage, giving his entire 


1 88 


M/SS MARSTON. 


property to other relatives. The fight was a 
bitter one. You may have heard of it through 
the English papers. An attempt to commu- 
nicate with my sister failed, and for nearly a 
year I lost track of her completely. While we 
were in Manitou a few weeks ago I received, 
one day, a telegram dated Leadville, and signed 
by Dorothy. She represented that she was in 
deep distress and requested me to go to her ; 
I did so, and this was the errand that called 
Mrs. Sowders and myself to the city — although 
Auntie knew nothing of my real mission. 
Dorothy had resumed the stage — the con- 
cert-hall stage, it transpired. Her husband, a 
worthless scamp, deserted her in London and 
afterward suicided. The unfortunate girl was 
almost poverty-stricken and scarcely in the 
best of health. She was my sister, Mr. Escanes, 
and a woman — I provided for" her, sending 
her south. To my most intense surprise, I 
received, the day before yesterday, a note dated 
at the Gibson hotel, informing me that she had 
arrived there, and that it was important she 
should see me. She was almost prostrated 


M/SS MARSTON. 


from terror, the reason for which she would 
not inform me, although I pleaded with her 
earnestly. She stated she desired to go to 
France to remain — ‘ it is the only place where 
I may live in safety’ she said wildly. I at once 
arranged that she should go. Briefly, Mr. 
Escanes, this is my story.” 

Penn had whipped the horse into a gallop. 

“ Miss Marston,” he said, “ you are a noble 
and just woman. The developments to-day 
have not only interested, but relieved me more 
than you can possibly believe, for you do not 
understand under what horrible delusion I 
have been struggling.” 

He would have said more, but they were 
almost in front of the Major’s quaint house, and 
Mrs. Sowders was calling out a cheery greeting. 

“ We have had rather an exciting afternoon,” 
he said, as Miss Marston went up the steps. 

“ Rather a peculiar afternoon, you should say 
— scarcely exciting,” she returned. 

But he considered it so, despite her assertion. 
It had been exciting, he felt, in more ways than 


one. 


190 MISS MARS TON. 

***** 

When the stage rolled slowly by Pink’s 
grocery, Francois was just coming from the door 
of that important business house. It has been a 
long established fact that any person and of any 
nationality, will stop while a railway train or a 
stage coach passes. Francois, with his large 
square bundle in his arms, stood between the 
road and the little store, and drank in the huo-e, 
dirty spectacle of mountain transit method. 
There was one passenger — a young woman, 
veiled, who shrank against the seat and gave a 
gasp of terror as she saw the face of the boy by 
the roadside. He noted it too — ^just enough to 
wonder, as he passed on, what could have caused 
it. There seemed to be something very familiar 
about it — it was just such a cry as he had heard 
on two occasions, one stormy night in Monsieur’s 
room at the St, Mathilde inn. 

He walked very slowly, his head bent in 
thought. 

No — he could not be wrong — none other 
could utter a cry like that. 

He paused, turned, and looked at the coach 


M/SS MARSTON. 191 

as it was wheeled around a curve in the road, 
and lost behind the willows. 

“ That was Madam,” thought he. Madam 
— and she was here.” 

His thoughts never came so slowly in his life 
before. The usual insane impulsiveness, on 
which he so frequently acted, seemed to have 
deserted him. It was doubtful, even had Madam 
appeared in the road before him at that very 
minute, if he would have harmed her. It was 
doubtful if he would have reproached her. 

Suddenly he turned again and walked reso- 
lutely toward the hotel. 

***** 

Jo, who seldom found anything in particular 
to do just about sun-down was seated upon the 
revolving gate by the road, making a spectacular 
exhibition of herself, according to Gladys, who 
looked down on her discouragingly from an 
upper window. 

“ There is not a soul in the wide world,” called 
out Miss Josephine in return for a doubly sar- 
castic remark from her estimable sister, “ who 
knows I am swinging on this gate. You are 


192 


MISS MARSTON. 


horrid to spoil my fun. I cannot make a ‘ spec- 
t’ular exposition’ of myself anyway, where there 
is no audience.” 

There was a ridiculously half-suppressed 
titter by the side of the fence just then and a 
wail of horror from the hoydenish young woman. 

“ Oh, how horrid of you ! ” 

“ W — well,” stammered the very minute 
individual thus addressed, ‘ you see I c — couldn’t 
help it. Y — you were yellin’ an’ I rapped 
twice on the fence to let you know that I w — 
was here. Y — you needn’t git mad — betcherlife 
/ain’t agoin’ to tell everybody in the camp.” 

“ You’re horrid enough to do anything. Do 
you know,” she said suddenly, going out into 
the path and seizing the youngster by the 
shoulders, “ do you know, I believe you’re the 
same little boy that threw rocks at my horse 
when I was riding the other day ? And I was 
afraid of that horrid horse, too ! ” 

“ I never,” angrily remonstrated the dirty- 
faced young man, “ I never threw rocks at any 
lady or any horse.” 

He resorted to the pathetic, and let a large 


M/SS MARSTON. 


193 


package he was carrying fall into the dust. 

“ I didn’t accuse you of it — I only alleged. 
You’re not to suppose I mean what I said. 
Penn says accuse and allege ai'e perfectly distinct 
from each other. If you accuse a man, he may 
thump the editor, but if you only allege, why 
then he has no grounds to get mad on — anyhow 
that’s what Penn was explaining the other day.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” remarked the 
dirty boy honestly, “ and I don’t think you do 
yourself.” 

“ I guess you’re right — I was sort of mystified 
when Penn was telling it, but every one laughed, 
so I suppose it was very funny.” 

“ Dinner, Jo,” called Gladys from the window. 

“ What have you there,” queried Miss Jose- 
phine, alluding to the fallen package. 

“ It’s for Mr. Penn Escanes, and is very 
important',' responded the boy, clutching a note 
tightly in his fat hands. “ It’s very heavy too,” 
he added. 

“I should think so,” said Jo, stooping to 
take the parcel from the ground. The paper 
parted and twelve neat little packages rolled 


194 


MISS MARSTON. 


out and distributed themselves variously over 
the roadway. 

“ Why, it’s soap!” she exclaimed, starting 
back. 

“ And are you so unfamiliar with the article 
that it causes a shock of that nature when you 
see it in quantities,” queried Penn quietly, as he 
came down the steps. 

“ I didn’t mean it that way — but it was so 
odd,” she remarked. Then, going into the yard 
and turning the gate : “ I would advise you, 
Mr. Escanes, to have your very important pack- 
ages more securely sealed when they are sent by 
private messenger.” 

Penn opened the note the boy had extended : 

“ Monsieur — I find I am deceived by all — 
everyone. I have seen Madame. I go to meet 
her. I send you by this boy your soap — a re- 
sult of another what you have called fool’s 
errand. This time I go on no fool’s path — I go 
my own, and I shall meet Madame. I am 
grateful. Monsieur, for your kindness — I shall 
accept of it no more. 


Francois Ferri.’ 


M/SS MAJiSTON. 


195 

“ There is no answer, young man — for you to 
carry at any rate,” said Penn, looking down at 
the expectant face. “ I don’t suppose he paid 
you — here’s some money.” 

And the urchin scampered off, after a vain 
endeavor to get a glance at Jo through the open 
window. 

There was a great deal to be done in little 
time. The stage must have nearly reached the 
End of the World about the time Penn received 
the note, and — well, something most interest- 
ing and sensational might be occurring there 
while he stood regarding the fruit of Francois’ 
errand to the grocery. The events of the sum- 
mer had re-taught Escanes something he had 
completely forgotten — quick action in cases of 
emergency, often prevented serious crimes. In 
ten minutes the household knew that he had 
received an important dispatch and must go to 
the station. In five minutes more, just as the 
edge of the sun was visible against the moun- 
tain tops to the Wes'- he was riding furiously 
down the gulch. 


196 


M/SS MARSTON 


CHAPTER III. 

OLD ACQUAINTANCES MEET. 

When California Dave drew up before the 
neat hotel by the railway station, he was just 
twenty minutes ahead of time, despite what he 
had feared would cause a delay some miles back 
by the breaking of the harness. He had every 
occasion to feel good-humored. Madam, whom 
he assisted into the hotel parlor, was rather 
weak, rather nervous, and rather white, but she 
gave him a quiet “ thank you ” that went straight 
to his heart. She was a dainty little woman, 
and seemed so very tired. 

“ I will have yer traps sent over t’ the depot,” 
said Dave gently. 

“You are very kind — I’m sure I’m ever so 
much obliged,” she said, looking up tiredly. 

So, swelling with big-hearted enthusiasm, he 
walked out whistling. 


MISS MARSTON. 


197 


A dirty, white, dusty figure was just creeping 
out from under the big canvas trunk-cover be- 
hind the stage. 

“ So yer stole a ride, did yer?” queried Dave. 
He tried to be harsh, but Madam’s soft “thank 
you ” had driven all harshness from his nature 
for the time. 

“ Yes,” said the figure, dejectedly. 

“ Well, I s’pose I ought ter report ye, but yer 
needed th’ ride, I guess — whare’d yer git on 
at.?” 

“ At Sedgewick, where you stopped. I 
walked from Gibson.” 

“ What might yer name be.” 

“ Francois.” 

“ Thet’s French, ain’t it .? ” 

“ Oui, Monsieur,” 

“ We, Musuer ! ” Dave laughed very loudly. 
“ Don’t ‘ we ’ me — I ain’t of that kind, see ? 
Jest yer git ’long now — yer might have rid on 
th’ seat with me ef ye’d had th’ gimp ter ask.” 

At his request, Francois gave him a “ lift ” 
with the “ luggage,” and then went inside. At 
the parlor door he stopped. The evening was 


198 M/SS MARSTON. 

just falling, and there were semi-penetrable 
shadows in the corners of the room. Madam 
had thrown aside her hat and travelling wraps, 
and was shaking the dust from them. He 
stumbled as he reached the threshold, and she 
looked up. Through the gathering darkness 
their eyes seemed to blaze like dull coals fanned 
to life after the heat had apparently died out. 
For a long time they regarded one another — 
Francois, leaning against the' open door. Ma- 
dam with her cloak, which she had been dust- 
ing, half raised. She finally stepped forward 
— after they had been standing nearly half an 
hour. 

“You have come to kill me, I suppose,” she 
said, scarcely loud enough to be heard. “ I 
have expected it ever since — ever since I left 
France. I saw you in Leadville — you wanted 
to kill me there.” 

Then she went nearer to him — stood directly 
before him and threw the cloak to the ground. 

“ You may kill me now, if you wish to. I 
suppose I deserve it. Well, I am ready ! ” 

She spoke as though she had prepared her- 


M/SS MARSTON. 


199 

self for an ordeal for which she was destined — 
as though she was a criminal sentenced to the 
guillotine and the time for death was at hand. 
It was a move, above all others, for which her 
would-be executioner was wholly unprepared. 

“ You are ready for death ? ” he gasped, “ and 
like that ? ” 

“ I am ready for anything,” she answered in 
Francois’ native tongue. It was a home- 
thrust on her part, too, this unconscious change 
from English to French. He repeated the 
words again and again, as though they were 
delicious sweetmeats, murmuring spasmodically, 
“ France — la Belle France 1 ” 

The hot ride was telling upon him. The 
events of the day seemed to have turned his 
brain. He laughed deliriously, and, seizing her 
hand, covered it with dry kisses. 

“ You have called me back to my France — 
to my beautiful France,” he said, wildly. “I 
will not kill you ; do you hear .? I came to kill, 
too — it is so strange I should not — ^want — to.” 

He reeled over to a chair and sank back 
upon it, covering his face with his arms. 


200 


M/SS MAKS TON. 


“ I would rather kill myself — any one in all 
the world,” he muttered, “ than you. And yet 
I would have every reason to kill you of all 
others.” 

She went to his side and placed her hands 
upon his dusty hair. 

“You are ill,” she said, in French; “ you are 
ill, and are exciting yourself.” 

Then he started up, clutching the chair and 
taking a step toward the door. 

“ I cannot kill you,” he said, facing her ; “ I 
cannot kill you because — because I love you.” 

Then his arms trembled violently, his knees 
quivered, and he fell to the floor with a weary 
sigh, a dusty, awkward heap. 

Madame ran for assistance and stumbled 
over a tall figure in the hallway. It was quite 
dark and there were no lamps. She felt her 
arm seized, and managed to gasp, considerably 
frightened : 

“ Won’t you please come into the parlor, 
whoever you are ? A friend of mine has been 
taken suddenly ill.” 

The tall man, who was evidently greatly 


M/SS MARSTON, 


201 


excited and out of breath, walked directly into 
the room. Leaning over the inanimate form of 
the boy he looked sharply up at Madam and 
asked : 

“ 111— or dead.?” 

He had not expected this. 

“ I think he has fainted, ” she replied, un- 
mindful of the thrust. 

“You say a friend of yours.?” 

“ Yes — please assist me.” 

Penn went out for the landlord and shortly 
the boy was in a warm bed, tossing about 
half-consciously. The woman was everywhere. 
She sent some one for flannels and some one 
fora doctor, while Penn obeyed her commands 
at the bedside, amazed at her deftness and 
promptness. 

“ He is very feverish, I fear, ” she said, bend- 
ing over him once and stroking the flushed face. 
The invalid might have been a very dear friend 
indeed, from the concern she showed. 

“ The train leaves in ten minutes, ” said 
Dave, opening the door rudely, and causing 


202 


M/SS MARSTON. 


both watchers by the bed to start, ‘‘ yer haven t 
much time.” 

“ I am not going to-night, ” she replied 
quietly, “you may have my baggage returned 
to the hotel.” 

Then the physician entered the room, and 
for a time Penn and Madam were busily 
employed obeying his instructions. He went 
away finally, after having given commands and 
countermands, ordering absolute quietness in 
the apartment, above all things. The night 
lamp suffused the plain little room with a mel- 
ancholy light, throwing a shade upon the 
restless sleeper on the bed. 

“ I must insist, ” said Escanes gently, “ on 
your retiring at once. You have spent a very 
tiresome day, and the ride alone was enough to 
wear upon you. I will watch here.” 

“You are very kind, ” was the soft reply, 
“ but I cannot do as you wish — somehow I felt 
as though it were my duty to remain here until 
he is better. Besides, you must have spent 
fully as w'eary a day as myself. My — my sister 


M/SS MARSTON^. 


203 


has spoken to me of you — you brought her to 
Gibson this morning, you know. The day 
has been a very eventful one with me — a very 
surprising one. Do you know, I believe our 
wickedness follows us to every corner of the 
earth and confronts us in the most unex- 
pected places } ” 

She scarcely knew why she said this, but 
somehow, she found the words a great relief. 

She looked remarkably like Dorris, as she 
stood there. The little gestures, evidently of 
French origin, were her only distinguishing 
features. 

“ And I too know of you — and something 
about you. I need not disguise it — Francois 
confided in me.” 

She uttered a sharp little cry of pain. Then, 
somewhat feebly : 

“ I suppose you consider me a very bad 
woman, then— for that matter I suppose I am. 
Mr. Escanes, I have been a follower of folly all 
my life. I have been very wicked all my life. 
I have sinned in more ways than one. I sup- 
pose he told you, among other things, of that 


204 


M/SS MARSTON’. 


horrible affair at St. Mathilde.” She shivered, 
although the room was quite hot. “ I am not 
wholly guilty of the terrible end of it — I did 
not — believe me, Mr. Escanes, I did not — kill 
him. He was behind me in it all — my hus- 
band, threatening, adjuring, warning. But it 
was he, Mr. Escanes, it was he who finished the 
work.” She uttered the words in jerky little 
sentences, and leaned, with her eyes half closed, 
against the table for support. 

He was at her side in an instant. 

“ Do not attempt to explain, I beg of you. 
/ do not care for what you are, for what you 
have been. There is an unwritten law requir- 
ing forgiveness at least, if not pardon, for all 
crimes. It is not always obeyed, but I am one 
of the few honoring it. Believe me, I will ever 
respect you for the good I am confident you 
can and will do — for the good you have begun 
this very night. Of this French affair of which 
you speak your sister is ignorant — through me, 
she will never learn it. I — I admire your sis- 
ter, Mrs. Terris, and such tidings would be dis- 
tressing to her — unnecessarily distressing, I 


M/SS MARSTON. 


205 


think I may say. One thing I will ask you — 
tell all to him',' nodding toward the bed. 
“ When he is in a condition to listen, explain 
the matter to him.” 

She pressed his hands warmly. 

“ I believe the world would be better if there 
were more as lenient as you. You cannot 
thoroughly realize what you are doing — looking 
lightly on errors in a life the world would shud- 
der at. I thank you from the bottom of my 
heart.” 

There were tears glistening on her eye- 
lashes as she bent over the white hands. 

“ Pray do not distress yourself,” said he, 
“ and let me again entreat you to retire for a 
few hours at least. I can rest, you see, in this 
great arm-chair.” 

She remonstrated again, but finally, noting 
he was so earnest in his solicitation, withdrew, 
leaving him at the bedside of the feverish, toss- 
ing, dark-skinned boy. 

Toward morning the figure on the bed rocked 
violently under the white covers, and the pink- 
ish white lips uttered disconnected, half-intelli- 


2o6 m/ss marston. 

gible words. They were all of France — France 
and the roses, St. Mathilde and the chateau ; 
then of Madam, hut not a word against her — 
“ forgive, forgive,” came gaspingly now and 
again. 

Thus it was all the night and all the day, 
although he seemed quieter when Madam, 
refreshed hy her night’s rest, came to the bed- 
side and gently stroked his hair or patted the 
hot hands. The doctor came and went fre- 
quently, shaking his head negatively each time 
he departed. He was a fussy little gentleman, 
not greatly skilled, it was rumored, but the 
only physician at the End of the World. 

When the night-shadows began to fall once 
more, Francois was conscious, although very 
weak. He pressed Madam’s little hand en- 
couragingly, and asked to be raised on the 
pillows. When his request was granted, he 
looked at her long and earnestly. She spoke 
to him in French, and his eyes brightened. 

“ I wish you would tell me,” he said, music- 
ally, “ tell me that it was not you. I would 
like to think that it was not you — that it was 


M/SS MARS TON. 


207 


him instead — that you were too good — too 
honest.” 

“ It was not I,” she returned lowly, as though 
she wished to please him. 

“ Thank you, Madam — I am so grateful. I 
would kiss your hand. Madam, but I feel so 
tired — so very, very tired.” 

Then he began repeating: “ I did not think it 
was all your doing — somehow I thought you 
were too good,” reiterating it many times. 

He looked, at last, through the open window 
at the hills, made purple by the lingering, mel- 
low rays of sunlight. 

“It is France,” he muttered, “beautiful 
France,” 

He was looking at the hills as the light 
faded from his eyes and his hand, in Madam’s, 
turned cold and still. 


2o8 


MISS MARSTON. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was an unpretentious, almost pathetic, 
little funeral, yet it seemed, singularly enough, 
really appropriate to the end of a lonesome 
life. When the mild-faced, soft-voiced clergy- 
man had gone, when the sexton had filled the 
dry earth into a little mound and placed the 
customary white board to make the head of 
the grave. Madam and Penn stood over the 
yellow heap for a long time without speaking, 
busy with their minds’ panoramic pictures. 
When she looked over at him her eyes were 
moist and her voice trembled. 

“ It seems,” she said, sorrowfully, “ as though 
very few of us really get the infliction we de- 
serve. Here is one whose only sins have been 
caused by the unpunished woman who stands 
over him. I cannot bring myself to believe 
that the hand of death, so gruesome as we 


M/SS MARSTON. 


209 

fancy and often believe it, has sought the right 
person in this instance.” 

“ And do you believe death to be the great, 
the supreme penalty for the errors of your life } 
Do you imagine it so terrible after you have 
seen his life go out as it did Have you not 
suffered ? Ah, Madam, we all have a con- 
science, that invisible, torturous thing beside 
which death would be a relief. It is strange 
you, of all others, should not have learned this. 
For my own part I cannot conceive of a better 
ending of your unfortunate stay at St. Mathilde, 
sorrowful as it is. You are not a woman to 
take things lightly — this, I know, has sunk 
into your heart, and you will be the better for 
its transpiring.” 

He led her away then, and the little mound 
was left to itself, hiding the sad story of a life 
not understood. 

*• It is hardly possible we shall meet again,” 
said she softly, “ I thank you, more than my 
words can express, for your kindness toward 
one so — so unfortunate, you are considerate 

enough to call it. I know you will think of 
14 


210 


Af/SS MARSTON. 


me, once in a while — I cannot expect you to 
forget me, and I only hope you will think of me 
as kindly as you can.” 

“ It will always be kindly,” he answered ear- 
nestly “ always that.” 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“ One week more,” sighed Gladys rather 
mournfully, when they were all assembled in 
the parlor that evening, like a huge family re- 
united. They seemed to have paired-off ; an 
evening custom that somehow caused no com- 
ment. The Major, who had never been fully 
successful in defining chutes and upraises 
to Mrs. Sowders, was earnestly engaged, for 
the three hundred and second consecutive 
time, in endeavoring to make the mining subject 
clear — it seemed essentially important to the 
Major that it should be made clear. He never 
became impatient during these little lessons, 
for although he invariably had to commence 
at the beginning every time, he was won- 
derfully persevering. Gladys and Aumerle, 
seated, juvenile fashion, in the large open win- 


M/SS MARSTON. 


2H 


dow, studied the moon. It was a paramount 
necessity, evidently, that they should know 
everything about the orb, for they seemed 
more wonderfully engrossed with it each suc- 
ceeding night. Jo and Herrick, like practical 
people in love, talked somewhat sensibly on 
the sofa. Over at the rosewood piano was 
Dorris, and seated beside her, Escanes. 

“ She says one week more,” remarked Penn 
lowly, “ one week more of our eventful sum- 
mer.” 

“ It has passed quickly, hasn’t it,” she said ; 
“ so very quickly that it seems almost beyond 
comprehension. It has been a very happy 
summer, too.” 

* Yes- -in all but one respect.” 

He might have said ten respects and been 
nearer the truth. She lifted her eyebrows 
expressively. 

“ And that } ” 

He arose and leaned over the key-board. 

“ Miss Marston, you must have seen that 
my association with you this summer meant, 
after a time, something more than mere friend- 


212 


MISS MARSTON. 


ship — that, daily, I could barcxy resist an 
admiration that grew greater and greater. I — ” 

She had turned quite pale. 

“ Don’t, she pleaded, “ please don’t say any 
more. I know just what you mean — ^just what 
you were going to say.” 

“ I suppose others have said it before,” he 
remarked w^earily, but with no accent of 
reproach. 

“Yes, others have said it, for that matter. 
I will not deny that I entertain for you a feel- 
ing of the utmost regard, Mr. Escanes — a feel- 
ing akin to something you would have men- 
tioned, had you proceeded. You wish me to 
marry you— I cannot.” 

“ May I ask why ? ” 

She was looking silently at the keys and un- 
consciously pressed her fingers down, produc- 
ing a frightful discord. 

“ Is it your sister, Dorris ? ” 

“ Yes,” very low. 

“ I am not marrying your sister. 

“ Do you remember our conversation in the 
parlor one night — the night Auntie lost her 


M/SS MARSTO^r. 


213 

lace-work and I went down to find it ? Do 
you remember what you said about — about 
actresses and leading double lives.” 

He remembered — very vividly. 

“ That is not the subject we are treating 
now,” he said. 

“ Would you care — really care, Mr. Escanes, 
to marry into a family in which there was a 
social monster of your own description } ” 

He was laughing now — rather happily, it 
seemed. 

“ I would not hesitate an instant,” he said 
quietly. “ Not an instant. Especially when 
there was a social angel like you to counterbal- 
ance the ‘ monster’ as you put it — although I 
assure you she is far from being anything of 
that order. Now I am going to ask you some- 
thing — will you be my wife Please don’t say 
it’s ‘ sudden ’ or anything of that sort — it’s 
customary, I believe, but it wouldn’t be right. 
Say ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no ’ but don’t let it be ‘ no 

The Mayor was holding Mrs. Sowder’s hand, 
ostensibly to illustrate the angle of inclination 
of an ore lead in the mine. 


214 


MISS MARSTON. 


Aumerle had placed his arm around Gladys, 
just for an instant, to draw her nearer to his side 
of the window, from which point of view a 
peculiar shaped cloud was more plainly visible, 
drifting across the face of the moon. 

Jo and Herrick were speaking in such low 
tones that one might almost have accused 
them of whispering. 

The room was intensely still, yet only one 
person heard a faintly murmured ‘ yes ’ as a 
slender hand slipped into a stronger and 
sturdier one, and only two knew just what 
occurred immediately thereafter. 


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To secure the most delicate and refined perfume from the rose, 
is necessary to discard the green central bulb. The above picture, 
produced from a photograph, shows a large number of girls and 
)men seated around tables piled high with roses, engaged in stripping 
f tne leaves. 

Although this is a very tedious and expensive operation, yet 
)lgate & Co., each year, have millions of roses separately handled 
d stripped of their leaves, to obtain the most delicate odor for their 
irivalled soaps and perfumes, the favorite of which is 

Jashmere Bouquet 











